


An Ornament and a Safeguard

by ShannonXL



Series: Bleak Future [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Apocalypse, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, End of the World, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Slavery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Slow Build, implied slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 47
Words: 60,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale has been walking to California for years.</p>
<p>Stiles Stilinski has been nurturing the 'stead at the end of the world. </p>
<p>The apocalypse happened and everything might be too fucked-up to fix. </p>
<p>The end days have come and gone. These are the remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carry On Carrion

When he sees the headlights, and feels the vibration of the road against his cheek, Derek knows he won't be able to get up. He struggles anyway, fingers scraping against the uneven pavement, because he doesn't want to die. His limbs aren't cooperating. His heart is pounding and the sound is deafening. He finds himself hoping, even as he struggles, that his death will be quick. He's so tired of feeling pain. 

The driver stops, and Derek winces when he hears footsteps. The human's smell isn't familiar, but he knows well enough by now not to hope this is just a friendly stranger. He bites half-heartedly at the hands hauling him up.

"Hey hey hey, none of that! I can't get the wolfsbane out of your system if you bite my fingers off."

Derek groans as he's pulled haphazardly into the back of the car- an ambulance? It smells like medical supplies, and there's a red cross on the side. It might just be a truck that's been retrofitted, hard to tell with his vision going black around the edges. He doesn't let himself get hopeful. He's heard of bounty hunters who catch their prey by lulling them into a false sense of safety. It would be just his luck to be found by one of those guys when he's too injured for the charade. 

The driver, definitely a human, underneath the smell of antiseptic and motor oil, is taking scissors to his torn shirt. He doesn't fight, but he's not really able to. 

"Man, you really pissed off the wrong people. Do you think they're far behind?"

Derek shakes his head.

"They'll follow my smell. They don't have to rush."

He sees the human smirking through his heavy lashes.

"Or so they think. This is gonna suck, but you'll feel a lot better once it's through your system." 

Derek feels something sharp and cold in his arm, and he whimpers without meaning to. He's been drugged too many times to count, and he hates it. He didn't even know werewolves _could_ be drugged, before. This new world has taught him a lot of uncomfortable lessons. 

He shudders, waiting for whatever it is to take hold, but his head doesn't feel fuzzy. He _hurts_ , but the hurt is clearer, more precise, like his focus is pin-pointed on his injuries, which are at turns searing hot and frigidly sharp, depending on what caused them. The bullets burn as they're forced out of his skin, the cuts and slashes knit together, his blood working as a natural disinfectant. 

The car rumbles underneath him. He didn't see the driver get up. 

Derek struggles to open his eyes, groaning when he looks directly into the overhead light, so much brighter than his night-accustomed eyes are used to. 

"You awake back there?"

Derek coughs in reply. He doesn't need to look to know the liquid trickling from his lips is black. 

"There's a bucket to the right of your head. Aim for that if you can. It's gonna hit you real fast."

Derek lunges as the driver gives the understatement of the century; what feels like gallons of black bile forces its way up with barely any warning. He heaves, his entire body tensing. He doesn't know how much he'd ingested while he was being held captive, but it appears he'd underestimated the amount. If he'd been given it all in one dose, the wolfsbane alone would have been enough to kill him. But months of tiny doses have kept him alive, and weak. 

He leans back down when it's over, only to realize the car has stopped moving. He opens his eyes, and the driver is sitting a few feet away, holding a bottle of water. 

"It's sealed. And if I wanted to hurt you, I probably could have. Y'know, when you were heaving your guts out."

Derek doesn't take the water.

"What I'm trying to say is, I don't _want_ to hurt you, so please don't kill me."

Derek grimaces as his stomach convulses once more, but it seems that he doesn't have anything left to purge. 

"Don't lie." His voice is so raspy even he doesn't recognize it.

The driver rolls his eyes, and takes Derek's hand, pressing his fingers against his pulse point.

"I'm betting you're usually able to hear this, but you're in pretty bad shape right now, so I'm gonna help you out, ok. Now," he looks right into Derek's eyes, and Derek can't remember the last time anyone's looked at him like that. "I don't want to hurt you, and I _really_ don't want you to kill me. Does it feel like I'm lying?"

Derek barely has the energy to shake his head, and his vision is getting blurry.

"Are you gonna take the water now?"

He does, in lieu of responding. The driver helps him open it, and Derek realizes his fingers are trembling. He doesn't want this stranger to help him drink, but his body isn't giving him much of a choice, and when the fresh water trickles into his mouth, he gasps and nearly chokes himself because it's been so long since he's had fresh, clean water. 

"Easy now. That's it." The driver leans back, capping the water. 

"I'll leave this here with you, okay? Try to drink a little more before you go to sleep. I want to cover more ground before sunup."

Derek takes the water, closing his eyes. 

"Who are you?"

He feels the stranger's hand on his knee, and cringes. But it's friendly, nothing more.

"My name's Stiles. Try not to worry too much. You're not the first stray I've picked up."

Derek's mouth works, fighting exhaustion.

"Stiles..." the name feels odd to him, but what isn't odd these days? "Stiles, where are you taking me?"

He feels the stranger- Stiles, standing up beside him.

"Beacon Hills."

At first he's relieved; it's not San Quentin, or any of the other workhouses under the Leanwulf's control. It'll give him time, at least. 

"That's not a jail I'm familiar with."

And then the stranger's leaning in, and Derek can't help but open his eyes, wide and fearful. But Stiles is smiling, if sadly, and he doesn't smell angry or cruel, or even anxious. He smells... like concern. It's such an unfamiliar smell, and this human, Stiles, he wears it like cotton, light and sturdy. 

And his heartbeat doesn't flutter. Not once.

"That's because it's not a jail. It's a 'stead up north. We don't chain our wolves up there, unless there's a full moon and they don't have an anchor yet. You probably won't stay forever, but we won't turn you in while you rest up."

Derek allows Stiles to lift his head, just enough to slip a pillow underneath him. His breath is still raspy, but the searing pain in his abdomen is slowly becoming a dull ache, and if he's choosing to believe this stranger, he's driving in the right direction. 

The lights dim around him, and he hears Stiles taking the bucket from beside him, replacing it with a new one, and a whispered "just in case", though he could have imagined it. Then the motor starts up beneath him, and Derek allows himself to fall asleep, knowing he'll need the rest if this isn't what it looks like.

He drifts off with a smile on his lips; what this _looks_ like is kindness, and Derek's sure there's no more of that. 


	2. We've Got Chemistry

Stiles glares at the car in his rearview mirror, fully aware that they can't actually see him. The road is uneven, and it's probably doing a number on Big Mama (new car, new nickname), but he slams on the gas anyway. He just needs enough distance between them to get through the checkpoint, after that the wall's defenses will keep anyone unwelcome out. 

But to get _in_ , they have to open the gate, and they won't do that if they think someone unwelcome will also get through. So, distance. 

And yeah, Lydia's security protocols have kept them all safe and alive for the past ten years, but they're a _huge_ pain in the ass right now. 

"Steady. Don't crap out on me now." He knows he's muttering out loud, knows the werewolf in the back can probably hear him, and he's certain that telling the engine not to fail him won't actually keep it from happening, but he doesn't really care. 

What he doesn't know is that the werewolf is awake, until he feels a hand at his shoulder, and he's so startled he nearly drives into a ditch. 

"Jesus, dipshit! Do not creep up on me like that!"

The werewolf doesn't apologize, merely scans the passenger seat.

"How far are they?"

"I'm keeping them about a hundred feet away."

"Where's your gun?"

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Shit outta luck. I don't carry one."

He's not making a sound, but Stiles is sure the werewolf is growling on the inside.

"Why not."

"You try and provide emergency medical services while you're packing heat!"

He swerves around a particularly difficult turn, hoping it'll put some distance between himself and his pursuers. It does, but not as much as he was aiming for. 

"So you're not armed. At all."

Stiles jerks his hands against the steering wheel, not willing to let go even for the sake of a truly epic flail. 

"My style's more cut-and-run, not stand-and-fight, or did my super manly physique not give that away?" The car jerks as he shifts gear, but it keeps going, pushing past the resistance of the torn-to-shit road. Dude sit _down_."

He says it just in time; there's a hairpin turn up ahead, and he doesn't want the still-healing werewolf to end up slamming against the door. Once, when Stiles was being chased by a group of bandits, the turn took them by surprise and they ended up going down the cliff. He doesn't think he'll get so lucky this time; but all he needs is distance. 

The werewolf buckles the threadbare seatbelt just a second before the car lurches. 

"How far are we?"

"Just a couple more miles. There's enough barricades to keep out a rhino, we just need to get through without them following."

The werewolf sniffs.

"What _do_ you have? Is there something we can use?"

Stiles squints, one of his headlights is out and there are plenty of obstacles on the road. Then he remembers. 

"There's some turpentine in the glove compartment. In the back, there's some bandages and a beaker or two."

The werewolf's looking at him like he's nuts.

"Molotov cocktail. Friend of mine taught me how to make them." He glances to his right. "It's like a bomb. If we set one off right in front of them, there's an overpass up ahead. They won't have anywhere to go except back the way they came."

"How much time do we have?"

"Less than ten minutes."

The werewolf nods. 

"Tell me how."

Stiles shouts instructions from the front of the car, trying to drive as smoothly as possible. He hears a few curses from the bay, but there's only so much he can do. He keeps an eye on the opposing set of headlights in his rearview. And he's seen that car before, knows exactly who they are and what they're planning on doing. 'Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear'. The warning is the opposite of comforting. 

"Do you have it?" he shouts back.

"Do you have anything to light it with?!"

Stiles bites his lip.

"There's a box of flares in the red container at the foot of the stretcher."

He hears the werewolf behind him again.

"How dangerous is this?"

"Not as bad as letting them catch you will be. I recognize these guys, trust me."

He feels a hot puff of breath on his shoulder as the werewolf sighs, but he heads into the back.

"Tell me when to throw!"

Stiles nods, then realizes he's pretty much invisible from where he's sitting.

"On three!"

He speeds up. The motor groans. He can see the hunters accelerating behind him. 

"One."

He hits a bump, and he hears the werewolf stumbling in the bay. There's no time to check on him. 

"Two!"

He turns, and there's the tunnel. He sends up a little prayer that he remembered the recipe correctly, and thanks whatever God is left for Lydia Martin and her staggering intellect. 

"Three!"

He hears the back door sliding open, the responding gunfire. Then, glass shatters, and the guns stop abruptly, replaced by shouts and the roar of a powerful flame. He smells smoke just as the rear door is slammed shut, and the tunnel momentarily blocks out all light except for the one functioning headlight and the fading flare of the fire behind him. 

Stiles coughs, and slows down. When they exit the tunnel, the sun is finally beginning to rise, casting the world in contrasting shades of green and gray.

"You okay back there?"

He's met with a grumbled "Fine". Stiles smirks.

"Didn't get shot, did you?"

Another grumble, this one less articulate. 

"I'm gonna assume that means you're not dying back there. At least not until I get you to Beacon Hills intact."

He doesn't hear any arguments, so Stiles keeps driving. He's hoping the fire will be enough of a deterrent, but if those were the same hunters from before, chances are they'll recover and keep following him on the off-chance that they'll catch up before they're safe inside the wall. And after seeing the damage they'd done to Isaac, Stiles isn't interested in getting any closer to them than he already has today. 


	3. Raised ≠ Razed

Derek isn't sleeping, not with all the adrenaline in his system, but even when he crashes he knows he's going to stay awake. It was just a whiff, but the smell coming from that car was enough to make him sick all over again. He's still trying not to shake when Stiles stops the truck. If he closes his eyes, he can get a sense of the people surrounding them. They don't seem like enemies, and the conversation Stiles is having is friendly enough, but Derek's seen how quickly 'friends' can turn into something else. 

After a couple of minutes, Stiles steps into the back, handing him a shirt. It smells clean.

"Here. Looks like it might be a little big for you, but it's cold out there, even for you."

Derek nods and begins to dress. His abdomen has healed, at least externally; the skin underneath is going to be tender for a while. And the smell of smoke is still caught in his throat, and after all this time it still tastes like home. 

"Thanks."

Stiles shrugs. Derek pulls the cotton over his head only to find that Stiles is still looking at him like he's expecting something.

"What."

"I just realized. Um. I never asked you for your name."

Oh.

"Derek."

"Just Derek?"

Derek glares.

"Yes."

"Okay. That's fine." He scratches the back of his head. "I guess... never mind. Let's get you settled into the hospital, and we'll figure the rest out later."

"If you're thinking about sending me back out there-"

"I'm not! I-"

"I wouldn't blame you." Derek looks him full in the face, even though there's a now-ingrained instinct to avert his eyes. It seems like the best tactic for this human, even if it's not how the last ten years have taught him to behave. "I'm a liability. The people that are after me... they're probably worse than the ones you left outside. And the mountain ash-" he gestures in the direction of what he assumes is the wall, he'd felt it on the way in, "It won't keep them out. So I'd rather you kick me out now, while the coast is clear."

Stiles gulps.

"You think that's what I'm gonna do?"

"It's what everyone does. That's what the world is like, now."

Stiles just grins.

"You should come outside and see for yourself what the world is like."

Derek furrows his brow, but he accepts the proffered hand and allows Stiles to help him stand, his joints creaking. Stiles doesn't let go until he's helped Derek step out of the van, his fingers fumbling awkwardly over Derek's freshly healed skin. 

The sunlight has been dampened by thick clouds, but there's enough to see clearly now, even without his supernatural sight. The air is fresher than he's used to, the only smoke in the air is coming from a few cooking fires- he can smell the food as well. It smells rich, like butter and fatty animals, things he can barely remember the taste of.

To his left is the wall, and it's massive. The bottom layer is made of stone, and it's at least the height of a large house, if not taller. There's a roof structure above it- that must be the mountain ash he sensed, and on top of that, terraces and watchtowers looking out, not in. He squints, counting the guards. Some of them are werewolves. And none of them smell like fear. 

To his right, there are cottages, and fields, and the soil isn't ruined here like it is across the country. He's heard there were some places left untouched by the scourge, arable land that people can live off of. He's seen some, food has to come from somewhere after all, even for dogs, but he's never seen so much in one place. 

And he's never seen werewolves that weren't afraid of humans. Even the strays, or the few packs he'd found as he made his way west, had learned to stay away from humans. 

"Stiles?"

He feels cool fingers at his elbow, ushering him towards one of the cottages.

"Come inside. You probably have a lot of questions."


	4. Small Doses of Charity

The hospital isn't anything more than a medically-equipped house, but it's the best they've got. There are a few cots, all of them empty (thankfully, that last bout of flu stretched resources thin and set back the harvest for a few precious warm days). But it's clean, and near the guard tower, and there's a loft for the nights he's actually able to get to sleep. 

"Why don't you sit down, Derek. I'll try to answer as best I can."

In the early daylight, Derek doesn't look much better, even though he's no longer covered in blood. He's gaunt, and pale, and there are patches on his arms where hair isn't growing in that Stiles thinks might be old burns. 

Derek sits on one of the cots, and it looks like he doesn't know where to begin. Fortunately, this isn't the first time Stiles has had this conversation.

"I guess, welcome to Beacon Hills. Like I said, you'll be safe here, for as long as you are here. I guess you saw there's food and stuff. And you saw the werewolves on the wall?"

Derek nods.

"They're some of ours. My friend Scott's probably out there now, but if you're worried I was lying to you before, I hope you can tell by now that I wasn't. We treat you like we treat us."

Derek nods.

"Humans wouldn't have been able to move those stones. Not without cranes and..."

"And machines that aren't really around anymore. Yup. They did the heavy-lifting, and humans did the rest of it." Stiles realizes he's fidgeting, and tries to stop, but there's something haunted about this werewolf. He's not that kind of doctor, he's not really _any_ kind of doctor, but he likes to treat people the same way you were once supposed to treat a forest: leave it better than when you found it. And forests aren't really in need of the help anymore; with the collapse of civilization, the trees have bounced back and are doing just fine. It's the people who need it now. 

Derek looks like he's trying to get something out. Stiles waits.

"You're doing well here."

He nods.

"Yeah. Pretty much unscathed by the first 'quakes, and everything that came after... it hasn't been easy, but we've managed, and we've been lucky."

Derek looks at him like it's painful to do so.

"So why'd you take me here?" 

Stiles gulps.

"What do you mean?"

"If you've been lucky so far, why are you taking in strays? Any one of us could leave here and bring raiders and hunters and everyone else in to take what you have. Why do you trust me?"

He says it like an accusation. Stiles thinks about his answer, which he doesn't do very often. Nobody's asked him this before.

"It's part of Lydia's plan. When everything... fell apart, she sort of took control. She was only fifteen, but she's a genius. She knew all this stuff about farming, once we all found out about shape shifters, she kept the town from starting a witch hunt. She kept us all together and told us how to rebuild."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Just like that?"

Stiles laughs.

"No, it was more 'get with the program or suffer the consequences', but it worked. And like I said, we've been lucky." He leans back in his chair. "But we also can't stay like this forever. And luck doesn't hold out. If we're going to stay safe, if we're going to _survive_ , we need to get bigger, get the world back on its' feet, not just our little corner of it. So, we're recruiting." 

Derek coughs, and Stiles puts his hands up so that he can finish. He's not surprised when Derek lets him. "You can still leave if you want to. A lot do. Because whatever you do here, it's hard work. And some people would rather forage, take their chances out there." He glances in the direction of the wall. "Live off of caved-in malls or run with the packs or the drivers or the hunters or the raiders."

Derek nods.

"So you go out to pick up... strays?"

Stiles catches the almost-grin at the word choice.

"Not quite. I'm usually picking up supplies. I was on my way back from a pharmacy we thought might still have supplies."

"And?"

"Burned to the ground." He sighs. "It's been happening more and more lately. It was a long shot. But I found you." He smiles. "And if you think you might want to stay, after you're fixed up, I'll vouch for you."

Derek's still looking at him like he's got a third arm, but it doesn't look like he's about to spook and run for the hills. 

"That's. Nice."

'Nice' obviously isn't a word Derek's accustomed to using. Stiles grins anyway, heading for the door.

"Anyway. Decisions and stuff can wait. You rest up, I'll try to find something for you to eat. I'll come check up on you in a little while. I can do a full medical work-up if you want, but that's optional for werewolves, cus you don't carry diseases."

He hears a gentle cough behind him, and turns. Derek's gripping the cot like it might run away from him if he lets go, and he's staring firmly at the floor.

"I can repay you. Whatever you want, I can. It's nothing I haven't done before."

Stiles tries not to let the sadness seep into his voice, and desperately hopes he didn't cringe at the implication of Derek's offer. 

"Don't. You don't owe me anything. I keep saying we've been lucky. From the looks of it, you haven't been so lucky. I'm not gonna take advantage of that."

He can tell Derek doesn't believe him. Stiles is used to that. He smiles again before he closes the door, even though Derek's not looking. He thinks some comfort food is in order.


	5. A clown and a claustrophobe walk into a bar...

Derek spends the time Stiles is away trying to figure out how to escape.

It's not that he wants to leave, it's that he knows he'll probably have to. At this point, he doesn't even do it consciously; mapping out all the exits and weapons and defensible high ground is just a routine he goes through in every new place. Even locked oubliettes with no way out. Even mountains so abandoned there isn't a trace of humanity as far as the eye can see, and farther. He settles into the habit, counting nine weapons that could be used to kill him, if it came to that, and twenty-two that could seriously injure him. 

Scaling the wall is the most difficult part, but he doesn't think anyone's tried it; the guards weren't watching the people inside, after all. Or maybe they just don't care about escapees. What's on the other side of the wall is probably more dangerous than anything inside it. Especially for Derek. 

Still, it calms him down, knowing how to get out. 

Stiles knocks on the door before he comes in, which surprises Derek, even though he could hear his footsteps. 

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?"

Derek shrugs.

"I don't need much sleep."

Stiles smiles; he smiles a _lot_ , in Derek's opinion. 

"I brought food. And this." He takes a bottle out of his pocket. "Deaton says it'll keep you from being too sore while your body recovers."

Derek can't keep his eyes focused on anything but the floor.

"I'll be fine. Don't waste it on me."

Stiles shakes the bottle.

"This stuff? It's made from grape root and salt water. We're in what used to be wine country, barely forty minutes from the coast. Trust me, we have a shit ton of this. You'd be doing us a favor by taking some off our hands."

Derek looks up for a moment. Stiles might be overstating the excess a bit, but he hasn't told a single lie. Derek doesn't know what to do with that; he's met humans that could fake it a little, keeping their heart rate steady with drugs or practice, but they still had other tells. Twitching eyelids, flaring nostrils, Stiles isn't exhibiting any of that. 

He takes the bottle, fingers brushing as he does so.

"Thanks."

Stiles' mouth twitches.

"If you show me where it hurts, I can help you. You're supposed to rub it in."

Now that he's not on death's doorstep, Derek doesn't want to remove his borrowed shirt. He tries not to let Stiles see his discomfort, wary of offending him, but Stiles picks up on it when he doesn't respond right away.

"Or, you can do it, whatever's easier for you. But you should eat."

He places a tray on the table beside the cot. There's a small loaf of bread that smells like nettles, and a large bowl of leek and potato soup. It's early spring, and they still have winter vegetables left over. Becaon Hills is doing very well.

"Don't worry, I didn't make any of this. My friend Allison's a freaking amazing cook." He grins. "And she'll be offended if I go back there with a half-eaten meal. So eat up."

Derek fiddles with the spoon, sniffing carefully before he takes a bite. Stiles watches for a moment, but once he's sure Derek's eating, he gets up and begins to fiddle with various things in the room. There's nothing out of place, but Derek feels a nervous energy coming off the other man. He almost retreats when he realizes a small part of that is attraction, but he doesn't think that Stiles intends to do anything about it. 

Still, he puts the food down, glowering. What Stiles promised doesn't matter. People find reasons to break promises. 

Stiles notices right away that Derek's not touching the food.

"Hey, is it all right? You're not allergic to anything in there, are you? I always forget to ask, and then here we are. Allison won't be offended, I was just kidding, you don't have to-"

Derek waves his hand.

"It's fine."

Stiles fiddles with a loose screw in the floor with the toe of his shoe. 

"Is it me? Do you want me to leave? I can get someone else."

Derek closes his eyes. He doesn't want to navigate the terrain with another stranger, not when he's just getting used to this one. 

"I'm just used to getting my own food. I can't always trust what other people give me. I'll get over it." He glances at the bread. He knows there's nothing wrong with it, but he can't bring himself to touch it yet, not when he's still on edge.

Stiles sighs, sitting on the cot across from Derek. There's nothing but shame coming off him now, and Derek's not sure why. It's not a smell he's familiar with in such a (jarringly) gentle context. 

"Do you usually hunt?"

Derek nods, jarred for a moment by the abrupt change in subject.

Stiles is smiling, trying to be encouraging. 

"What do you usually hunt for?"

"Whatever I can get. Rabbits and squirrels mostly. Deer when I can." He looks up, aiming for the side of Stiles' face, approximating eye contact. "Why? Is it important?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Not really. Not now anyway. But usually when we adopt someone new we ask what they're good at, what they bring to Beacon Hills. We have a couple of hunters, Allison's our best shot. But she's a couple months pregnant and she doesn't want to go outside the wall now, at least not far enough to hunt. But if you'd be more comfortable eating something you caught..." he waves his hands. "What I'm saying is, I want you to be ok. And right now you look like you're wasting away."

Derek doesn't disagree. Instead, he decides to start doing what he came here to do. 

"I'll be fine. I'll... I'll eat. But, Stiles." He tries to swallow. "I came out west because I was looking for something. I can't stay here."

Stiles bites his lip, releases it.

"Looking for something? What, what are you looking for, maybe we can help."

Derek shakes his head.

"It's probably long gone."

"Then why'd you come all the way out here for it?"

"Because it could change everything back."

Stiles is silent. From what Derek can tell, Stiles isn't silent frequently. When he's not talking, he's moving, twitching, fidgeting. Right now, he's stone-still. 

"What?"

Derek closes his eyes.

"The thing I'm looking for could fix it. Change everything back to the way it was." His throat is still dry. "That's what was worth walking all the way from New York for."

Stiles' hands twitch; he moves to grab Derek's arm, but he stops himself, as if remembering that he's dealing with an excessively tetchy werewolf with boundaries. 

"You know how to fix it?"

Derek licks his lips.

"I'm not sure. I know it's something I need to find. I know it's here, and I know where to start looking."

"No, Derek, you don't understand. We've been trying- damn it. I can't. I need to talk to Lydia. We both need to. If you're right, then-"

Derek grabs Stiles as he stands up, holding him in place with an iron grip.

"Don't. Don't tell anyone."

Stiles looks down at him. He's not afraid, not really, not as much as he should be. Derek's weak, but he's still volatile. He knows that there are nine weapons in this room that could kill him, but there are a lot of things he could do to Stiles before he reached even one of them. Stiles isn't armed, and he isn't strong. He could barely lift Derek into the back of his ambulance. And maybe Stiles doesn't know the details, but he must know the outcome. 

Instead he looks at Derek, waiting.

"Why don't you want me to tell anyone?"

Derek growls. Stiles doesn't flinch.

"I'm not asking you to accuse you, I'm asking because I want to understand. I know you're afraid, and from what it looks like you have every right to be. Are you keeping this a secret because you're worried about what we'll do to you, or are you afraid because you don't know a lot about whatever it is, and you think there's a good chance it might not work?"

Derek glares, and stands. He needs to feel predatory, even if he isn't, not really. He's an omega, no pack, no home, no family, not anymore. And he's too weak to transform, he doesn't even try. Instead, he gets as close to Stiles' face as he's comfortable with, just close enough to feel his even breaths.

"Why do you care?"

Stiles looks right back at him. 

"Because we heard something like that, too. That there's something out here that can fix everything. All of us going outside the wall know about it. And if you know more and need help, I swear, you've got the entire 'stead of Beacon Hills behind you."

Derek closes his eyes. Stiles' heartbeat… his heartbeat is fine. It's a little elevated, but it has been since Derek grabbed him, it doesn't mean anything. His sweat is acrid, but it's not bitter, it's not giving anything away. He opens his eyes again, searching Stiles' face. He sees stubbornness, and a little irritation, but mostly calm. No lying, he's not lying. But the little voice in the back of his mind tells him Stiles _must_ be lying, because when has anyone ever told him the truth? 

He takes a deep breath. Still nothing from his scent, just the same strange calm. 

After a moment, Stiles taps his shoulder.

"Hey. Sourwolf. Are you gonna let me go now?"

Derek does. Stiles massages the place where he was held, but otherwise he doesn't move. 

"Man, there's gotta be something I can do to show you we're not like... whatever you're thinking."

Derek leans back, staring at his hands. 

"It's not something you do, or aren't doing. It's just me."

"Nah." Stiles waves a hand at him. "It's you and every other stray that comes through here. People out there, on their own, they either don't last very long, or they last long enough to see the very worst of what's out there. You said you came all the way from New York?"

Derek shudders. New York was a nightmare when he left it. He imagines there's nothing but a crater there now.

"I shouldn't have told you anything." He still doesn't understand why he did. It was a moment of weakness, he'd let his guard down, he was _tired_ , and none of those excuses are good enough. Not with what's at stake. 

"Well. Cat's outta the bag." Then, Stiles snaps his fingers. "That's it! I know where to take you."

Stiles is halfway out the door before he realizes Derek isn't following. He grabs the doorframe to stabilize himself as he swings back around. 

"Hey! Come on, it's part of the tour anyway. Nobody has to know I'm convincing you we're not some cannibal cult." He softens his expression. "And nobody's going to be around at this time of day. All the work's at the other side of the compound. You won't have to deal with anyone."

Derek does not like to be coddled. Especially not by mouthy strangers. He gets up and walks through the door without looking back, listening for Stiles to follow. Since he doesn't actually know where Stiles is taking him. 

Stiles steps around him to open the front door.

"Sourwolf was right on the money there, wasn't it?"

Derek grimaces.

"No."

"I think it suits you."

Derek glares.

"No."

"I think that's how I should introduce you. Derek the sourwolf, it's not his pleasure to meet you."

Despite everything, Derek is fighting a smile. Stiles' good mood is absurdly infectious. 

"There's nothing in my pocket, and I'm not happy to see you."

Stiles doubles over laughing.

"Have a miserable Christmas-"

"And an unhappy New Year." Derek finishes for him, because Stiles is choking on his own giggles.

 


	6. King Wenceslas' Dead End

Stiles brings him to the nursery first, because there's nothing better than kids and puppies to cheer someone up. Or lull someone into a sense of security, which is what he's really trying to do. 

And look! There are babies! Who aren't crying! And some of them are probably werewolves! And they're also not crying! And there are puppies! Who will eventually be trained hunting and guard dogs! Which will be kind of intimidating but in the meantime puppies! And babies! And look how safe and happy they are.

He glances at Derek. They'd managed to catch playtime at the nursery. They have a little playground for the toddlers, and it's warm enough that they're outside, squealing and running and chasing the dogs. There's a small enclosure so nobody runs too far, and there are teachers and nurses hanging around, a few of them with babies in their arms. It's the kind of scene Stiles wouldn't think was out of place before. It's what used to pass for normal. 

But now the world outside their wall is torn to pieces. He's seen some of it. Towns completely abandoned, pillaged and burned. He's seen corpses too, and it isn't always easy to tell what got them. Starvation. Natural disaster. Other people. He wasn't making up that cannibal cult. Nevada's permanently a no-go zone for them. 

He glances at Derek. He's still edgy, avoiding looking at him directly, tensing whenever Stiles catches him looking at _all_. But he looks... happy? Can a person look happy without smiling at all? 

"You okay?"

Derek shrugs.

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"That places like this still exist."

Derek nods.

"They seem happy."

"A lot of them were born after. They don't remember what things used to be like. I think they're probably happier than the rest of us."

Derek huffs a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so bitter.

"That's probably true."

"You want to keep walking?"

Derek shrugs, but he follows when Stiles starts heading back the way they'd come. He hadn't planned on showing Derek the graveyard, but he sees the tree in the distance, and he abruptly heads for it. He's sure Derek's noticed the change, the dude's hyperaware and tightly-wound with it. But he doesn't say anything, so Stiles starts talking instead.

"I mentioned Scott earlier. My friend guarding the wall?"

Derek's nodding when he glances at him.

"Right. He's actually my best friend. I moved out here when... I was younger. I didn't know anybody, and neither did he. We decided we'd be brothers and that was that." They start going uphill, the terrain all-too familiar. 

"After the change, he was bitten by some werewolf. We still don't know who. Probably long gone or dead by now. Everyone was panicking about food and then San Diego flooded and someone said on the TV that it was God punishing the werewolves... anyway. A bunch of people came after Scott, and there was this whole mob of them outside his house." He gulps. They've reached it.

He finds he's run out of words for a second. Derek stands behind him, and Stiles isn't sure if he can't read or he just hasn't made the connection yet.

"But Scott's all right?"

Stiles nods.

"Yeah. He and I were holed up in his room. I was gonna try to sneak him out the back, but his senses were driving him crazy, he couldn't focus, and all those angry people outside, it just made him freak out." He gulps. "My dad knew I was inside. And he knew I wasn't coming out without my best friend. He died protecting us that night."

Stiles wants to sit down. But it doesn't feel like the right time.

"I thought you said Beacon Hills was lucky in the beginning."

Stiles laughs harshly.

"That _was_ lucky. Only one person died. Other places burned whole families alive. Some of the strays I've found got taken captive and nearly worked to death. Seeing my dad shot like that... it brought some people back to their senses. We learned from it. We decided that we needed to stay together to survive." He glances at Derek, but he's not talking.

"An omega that came through here, he told me that he was looking for his pack. That you're stronger, and better, when your pack is all together. When the world changed, that almost ruined us. But we've built this 'stead on the promise that we'll do what's best for each other. Like a pack."

Derek's inspecting the grave. It's simple. It's the only one that's engraved; those tools have been appropriated for more important things. Others are marked with stones, or knots of fabric. There's a document in Lydia's house with all the names and plots mapped out, for when those who remember their dead are dead themselves. But everyone's going to remember John Stillinski, the last Sheriff of Beacon Hills. 

"You were right."

Derek straightens, looking just past Stiles. He doesn't let Derek know that he's noticed.

"Right about what?"

"I thought places like this didn't exist anymore." He grimaces. "I don't remember much. My memories aren't... all there anymore. But if you're willing to help... I have to try anything and everything to fix this, if it's possible."

Stiles nods.

"I'm willing. I'm more than willing."

Derek stiffens his shoulders.

"Fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone commenting and giving kudos! You're all so sweet! I spent the last week and a half unpacking after a Big Exciting Move, so posts should be more regular soon.


	7. Admiralty Pattern

Lydia doesn't look very imposing.

The way Stiles describes her, Derek's expecting someone taller, and muscular. Intimidating. But Lydia's petite, nothing like the soldier he'd imagined, her long hair pulled back into an almost chic-looking braid. 

She leans forward on her desk when she hears what Derek's come for.

"You're sure?"

He grips the armrests of his seat.

"I'm sure about what she said. But there wasn't a lot of time."

Lydia nods.

"Why don't you tell me from the beginning?"

Derek doesn't like the way she's looking at him. Like he's some kind of refugee. It makes his skin crawl, and he can't pinpoint why. Maybe it's that she's a stranger, looking at him like he's weak, like he needs her. He chews the inside of his cheek until he feels Stiles looking at him. Derek glances at him, and a corner of his mouth twitches, and does the man ever stop smiling? 

"It's all right. Just go slow."

Derek swallows. Go slow. Trust. For now.

"When things started happening, I was in New York. I remember everything just before then really clearly. My sister Laura was out here. I kept calling, but everyone was calling, and I couldn't get through."

He grits his teeth. That first week had been terrifying. At first there were steady reports coming from the west coast; flooding and blackouts and small earthquakes. And every report was worse. Food riots. Flash floods. Mobs of frightened people running from their burning homes. And then the reports just stopped. Like California was gone. 

That was when it hit New York. 

"I remember people panicking. I must have been in hiding... I don't know why, or what I was hiding from. She called me just before we lost power for good. She sounded hurt."

She'd told him that she loved him. That he had to survive, because he was the last. That was the most important thing he could do. That he had to do it alone. She told him she was sorry. 

"She told me the key was an ornament and a safeguard. She said I was the only one who could fix this." 

He glances at Lydia. She doesn't look angry, and she hasn't immediately called for guards and chains. Her heartbeat isn't giving anything away, it's steady, and it _sounds_ safe. But he can't shake the feeling that he's being lulled into a false sense of security. 

He glances at Stiles from under his eyelashes, hoping he doesn't notice, even though Stiles doesn't seem to care that he's looking. Learned habits. 

"I came back to find out. If it's really true, I had to try."

Stiles' fingers are twitching like he wants to grab Derek's hand; Derek can see the strain it's taking to resist the impulse to comfort. He grimaces, taking Stiles' hand in his, squeezing gently. He feels the other man's pulse underneath his fingertips, but even though he's surprised, Stiles doesn't smell scared. 

If Lydia's seen this small interaction, she's choosing to ignore it. She crosses her legs, smiling politely. 

"All right. It's not much, but it's more than we've had in years."

Derek shrugs.

"I know it sounds..." he can't even think of a word to describe how ridiculous he sounds. 

"Since the event, I've discovered that half of my friends are werewolves, half of my enemies are harpies, faeries, or some combination of unbelievable mythical creature, and that I have a hidden talent for getting shit done. When you take into consideration what passes for normal these days," she smirks, "you sound pretty normal to me."

Stiles rubs his thumb against Derek's skin. He tells himself it's not a challenge. 

"So," Lydia sighs. "Derek. How do you want to proceed?"

He gulps.

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

She crosses her fingers together on her desk.

"Well. The way I see it you have a couple of options. You can leave, and try to figure this thing out on your own."

"Which you can totally do, you know." Stiles leans forward so Derek can see his face without surreptitiously glancing at him. "Not that I'm trying to get rid of you or anything, I'd be sad to see you go, but. Nobody's keeping you here. I promise."

Derek nods, willing himself to believe Stiles, since there's no evidence to the contrary. 

"She told me it had to be me, _only_ me. But I barely got here alive. And, I don't even know where to start looking." He sighs. "What are my other options?"

"You can give us any other information you have, and let us handle it."

He tries not to growl, but Lydia's clearly used to werewolves, because she responds as if he had, putting her hands up. 

"Or, since I don't think you want to do that, you can accept our help. In any capacity you'd like." She taps a folder on her desk. "I've been trying for years Derek, and all I've been able to do is keep the people here safe."

"You're doing better than most."

"It's not enough." She closes her eyes. "We've known for a while that... everything, wasn't just something that happened. That there's something wrong. And that means that it can be fixed."

Stiles squeezes his hand, delicately.

"Beacon Hills wasn't just lucky, we were ground zero for whatever it was. Like the eye of the storm. We're safe because whatever caused the global meltdown spread out and away from us. It means we survived when..." Stiles swallows. "Man, I'm tired of finding people dying on the side of the road. I hate not being able to save everyone. And the stories I hear, from the ones I do save..."

"What Stiles is saying," Lydia leans over her desk, "is, we'll do everything in our power to help you if it means we can undo it."

Derek nods at Lydia, but it's Stiles he's looking at. He can tell neither one of them is lying, but Stiles is different. His heart is pounding, like he's angry, and the sound of it makes Derek want to run, except Stiles' touch is still so gentle, even though he's agitated. He's not angry at Derek. He's angry _like_ Derek. He dragged himself across the continent because he was angry. Angry at the world, at the hunters and raiders, at the goddamn _weather_. And he sees that anger mirrored in Stiles, feels his heart beating to the same funeral drum. 

He doesn't want to trust these people, Lydia and the rest of Beacon Hills. But he wants to trust Stiles.

And then there's the key, the hint that Laura left him. He's been fighting for so long just to get here, he hasn't begun to think of what she might have meant. He's gone over it in his head, repeating the words so he wouldn't forget, but he has no idea what he's looking for. He doesn't want help, but he might need it. 

He grits his teeth, and makes a decision he hopes he won't regret.

"I'll take whatever help you can give me."

 


	8. Sedimentary Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles rocks, Derek rolls, and not in a sexy way.
> 
> An adventure with puns.

Stiles can feel Derek watching him from the passenger seat. It's weird, but it's weirder that they haven't said anything to one another since they left. Stiles tried, sure, if only because the sound of wind rushing past them is unpleasantly mind-numbing, but Derek didn't want to bite. So to speak. 

And Stiles was fine with that, he's used to chauffeuring the criminally stoic, painfully nonverbal, and the occasional emotionally constipated werewolf. But he can feel himself being watched, and it's just. It's.

"It's creepy."

Derek grunts.

"Dude seriously, say something, or I think I'm gonna explode! And then how are you gonna get to your childhood home?"

"I could walk."

Stiles is glad he's mastered the art of rolling his eyes while driving.

"And you don't think that would be an unnecessary inconvenience?"

Derek shrugs.

"I walked here all the way from New York."

"Well, just be grateful me and Big Mama are wiling to carry your werewolf-y ass the last thirty miles." He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "Are you worried?"

"Why would I be worried?"

"Gee. I dunno. Maybe because we're going to look through the burned-down remains of your childhood home, in a zone that's been code-red for six months due to the semi-frequent Golem sightings." He bites the inside of his cheek. "I'm worried, okay? I think it's a sign of great rationality to be worried at times like these. Plus, you've been looking at me all weird ever since we left and-"

Derek immediately closes his eyes, averting his face. Shit. Stiles knew, he _knew_ that Derek has a thing with eye contact. That he doesn't like looking at people unless he thinks they won't notice. Stiles picked up on it right away; it's on his checklist for 'abused werewolf strays', right between 'mysteriously unhealed scars' and 'general air of misery'. He's great at patching them up, but he's really shit at long-term, sensitive care. 

"Sorry. Derek, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a big deal of it."

"It's nothing."

Stiles bites his lip.

"It's... it's obviously something. And I get it, it's okay, I shouldn't have mentioned it. I told myself over and over not to mention it after last night-" during the awkward dinner where they sat across from each other and Stiles failed to engage Derek in conversation. He hadn't been planning on mentioning _that_ either. "Shit. I'm not... whatever your deal is, it's none of my business. Feel free to talk or not talk, stare at me all day or stare at the floor. I shouldn't have said anything."

"You said it was creepy."

"Well. I'll just have to sit here and suck it up."

Derek is silent, and Stiles curses himself as the truck rumbles over bump after bump on the uneven road. Then he hears a wheezing, unfamiliar sound. At first he thinks Big Mama is finally giving up on him, but when he looks over at Derek he sees him doubled over, and, against all odds, laughing. 

A smile creeps up on Stiles before he can help it.

"What? What part of that was funny?"

Derek looks at him, actually _looks_ at him, grinning.

"Sorry. Just. Did you name your car?"

Stiles nods.

"I'll have you know I've names every car I've ever driven. All two of them." He winks at Derek. “I’m a sentimental guy. Give me a brake."

Derek's quiet, and for a second Stiles thinks he might have missed it. 

"I don't know. Remembering all two of them? Sounds a little exhausting."

Stiles grins, even as he almost drives into a ravine.

"Derek, was that a pun? I would never have guessed that was your thing."

"You started it."

"Axel-dentally."

The trade bad puns with each other the rest of the way. Derek grows quieter the closer they get, but he isn't averting his eyes, so Stiles chalks it up to their proximity to the house, and is secretly pleased with himself for getting Derek to be something approximating relaxed with him. 

They have to park the truck and walk the last stretch of the way anyhow. The trees are too dense and any paths that once may have led to the house have been reclaimed by the woods. Stiles shoulders his bag of nonlethal weapons, and lets Derek lead. Even if it has been years since he's been back, Stiles knows Derek can use his sense of smell to track where they're going faster than the compass and map Stiles brought with them. 

It's grown cooler by the time they reach the house. It's not much of a building anymore; it burned down before the event, and time hasn't shown it any mercy. The beams are blackened everywhere that isn't covered in moss and other plants. Most of the support beams are still in place, but the walls and everything else are wrecked; Stiles can see through to the other side in some places.

Derek's sniffing the air.

"What is it?"

Derek grimaces.

"Just rotting wood. Nobody's been here in a while."

Stiles shrugs.

"Well. It's been years. And you weren't sure this is where Laura was. She probably had a hotel or something, she wouldn't have stayed here."

"But she would have _been_ here. Whatever I'm supposed to find, she would have left it somewhere she knew I'd look." Derek glances at the sky. "It's going to rain soon. We should finish here before it does."

Stiles nods, and lets Derek lead the way in. Not just because the floorboards look unstable (though if one of them is going to fall through, it should probably be the werewolf with the super healing). Stiles goes into abandoned buildings all the time, looting them for supplies and food. This is different. This is, was, Derek's home. It doesn't feel right to just go in. 

The floorboards creep, but they hold. Derek glances at the staircase, which looks rickety at best. 

"I'll check upstairs. The rooms down here should be safe."

Stiles nods.

"What should I look for?"

"Anything."

Stiles watches Derek ascending the stairs before he begins to search the rest of the house.

It smells like mildew and new growth. He goes left first, searching what might have been a living room. A fallen tree has gone through the ceiling, and dead branches crunch underneath his boots. 

He doesn't remember the details of the fire, doesn't even remember the family's name. It always feels strange to him, walking through other peoples' abandoned lives like this. Seeing the skeletons of furniture (and yes, sometimes human skeletons, too), but he can't imagine what this must be like for Derek. After the town he'd grown up in had to be abandoned in favor of the Beacon Hills 'stead, he hadn't visited the house he grew up in. He didn't think it was even still standing, not with the harpies and brigands and raiders coming through. 

He stumbles over something; at first he thinks it's another tree branch, but it feels softer. He leans down, grasping what feels like a leather strap, before he hears Derek yelling. 

And then he hears the Golem.

Derek is downstairs and standing in front of Stiles before it crashes through the front door, its head scraping the ceiling and sending debris tumbling down around it. Stiles has seen Golems before, he knows this one's not even that big, but they will never not creep him out. This one seems to be made of clay rather than stone, and it has the same empty eye sockets that the other ones have. Because of course there's someone out there making golems to menace whoever was left alive after the earthquakes and floods and other _natural_ disasters called it a day. 

Derek crouches in front of him, claws out.

"Are you rethinking your gun policy yet?"

The Golem swings, slow, but its arms are long enough that Derek has to push Stiles backwards to keep them both out of reach. Stiles stumbles up against what remains of the wall. 

"Seeing as bullets don't do dick to a Golem, no, I am not rethinking my gun policy yet. I'll let you know when I get around to it."

The Golem swings again. Derek catches its arm and pushes back, muscles straining.

"Do. You. Have. Anything. That. _Will_. Kill. It."

Stiles is already reaching in his bag, a fistful of pollen at the ready.

"I do if you'll duck."

Derek pushes the Golem back another two feet before he lets go. Stiles pounces ahead, spraying it with as much of the pollen as he can. It freezes in place, covered in light yellow dust.

Beside him, Derek looks impressed.

"What is it?"

"Pine tree pollen. It blocks the psychic bond between the golem and whoever made it. While it's covered, it can't move."

And of course, this is when they begin to hear rain.

Which wouldn't be a problem, if the integrity of the roof hadn't been compromised by the elements, lack of repair, and a _fire_. A few drops begin to trickle inside, hitting the Golem, which groans in response.

"Is it going to come back as soon as the rain washes that stuff away?"

Stiles nods.

"Maybe sooner."

Derek grabs his arm. 

"Run!"

Stiles begins to head for the open window, half dragged by Derek, before he remembers what he’d seen lying on the floor. 

"Wait! Derek, I found something."

The Golem is groaning, and one of its arms is dragging across the floor. Derek grabs the collar of his shirt, trying to put himself between Stiles and the Golem. 

"Leave it."

"No! It could be what you came for! Just give me-"

The Golem isn't going to give him a second; what remains of the ceiling collapses under the sudden weight of the rainwater, sending a small shower spilling all over the Golem's front. The clay glistens as the last of the pollen trickles through the cracks in the floor. It swings a heavy arm, hitting Derek solidly in the chest. Stiles ducks as Derek is flung into, and _through_ , a wall. The Golem turns its empty sockets onto Stiles, lifting both its arms in preparation for another blow.

Stiles reaches for his bag, hoping for something useful, hoping he can reach his bag of pollen in time. Just as the Golem strikes, Derek is back, holding the giant fists above his head. He's bleeding, but Stiles can see the injuries are mostly superficial, and they're healing, too. Still, he winces when he hears crunching bone; Derek's fingers are getting mangled underneath the strength of the Golem. 

"Stiles, go!"

Stiles rifles through his bag, looking for something stronger than pollen. He finds it.

"Derek!"

"I said go!"

Stiles stands up.

"Derek, get out of the way."

Derek glances back, sees the small bomb in Stiles' hand, and leaps out of the way. Stiles throws.

His aim was never good when he was a kid. He'd started playing lacrosse in high school, but he'd been terrible at that, too. But sometimes, circumstances force one to improve. This isn't his first Golem, and he's only praying a little when he tosses the bomb that it'll hit.

He's dead-on. 

The explosion flings him backwards, and Derek tumbles after him, covering Stiles with his body to protect him from the debris. He hit the Golem at its center, and there's now a gaping hole where its abdomen would be. Rainwater is dropping inside it (and Stiles is so glad these Golems are only a little humanoid, because imagining that happening to a person grosses him out), and the structure is deteriorated enough that it won't be getting back up _too_ soon.

But it will, eventually, get back up. 

Stiles grabs the strap, pulling it from underneath a fallen beam to reveal a purse. He's so glad he didn't just risk their lives for nothing, he knows he's grinning like there's no tomorrow, and Derek is just staring at him. Stiles flushes, because Derek is _staring_ and he's not angry or worried, he might actually be impressed. And Stiles isn't used to feeling impressive. He's the quirky medic driving around in a shitty re-appropriated van (and really, all he needed to do was replace the red cross with the words 'free candy' and he'd be exactly the kind of person your parents warned you about). People aren't usually impressed. People rarely stick around long enough for him to prove that he's secretly badass. So he's basking a little. He feels like he deserves it. 

And then Derek coughs, and blood trickles from between his lips, and that is their cue to leave. 


	9. pursed

Derek groans, flicking Stiles' fingers away.

"I'm _fine_ ," he hisses. "I _heal_. I've had worse than this."

Stiles grits his teeth.

"That doesn't mean you should have to put up with the pain right now. If anything, that means you've filled up your pain quota for one lifetime. You'll just have to spend the rest of your life snuggling warm blankets and getting full-body massages. Now hold still and let me make sure the bones are set."

Derek crosses his arms.

"They're set."

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Set _correctly_. You know, so you aren't walking around with a lopsided ribcage."

"My ribcage isn't lopsided."

"Are you just saying that so you won't have to break and re-set the bone?"

"Are you going to believe me if I say 'no'?"

Stiles sighs, leaning back in his chair. Derek watches him, hoping that he'll just let the issue drop. 

"Fine. You're the expert on you. But please let me know if it doesn't stop hurting. We don't really have any werewolf painkillers-"

"Because those don't exist."

"But I can help. If you let me. If you want me to."

Derek shrugs, hoping Stiles doesn't see him wincing. He's still weak, he knows it, he hates it, he knows he should have healed by now. He knows he would have if he were well-fed and healthy. 

He smells the apple just as he's cursing his recent diet, and his eyes flicker immediately to the knife in Stiles' hand, even though he knows it's not for him. Stiles puts it down anyway, recoiling.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I keep forgetting-"

"It's fine." Derek cuts him off, sitting up. Stiles reaches for him.

"Don't, you're-"

"I'm not made of glass!"

Derek closes his eyes, realizes his fangs are out, and it feels like the growl in his voice is still echoing in the small room, even though the wood absorbs most of the sound. He takes a few deep breaths, willing himself to take control. 

Stiles speaks first.

"I'm sorry."

Derek sneers.

"Not your fault."

"But I-"

"I should be in control. I shouldn't be on edge just because you're..." here, but he doesn't want to say that out loud. "I'm used to feeling anxious all the time, it's courtesy that I seem to have forgotten."

Stiles titters, laying a hand on the mattress.

"It's okay. I'm not punishing you for... whatever's going on. If anything, you're going through some stuff and I'm not being very helpful. So... don't worry about being courteous, or grateful. I'm not gonna kick you out or... or hurt you. Just tell me what you need, and I'll make it happen."

Derek opens his eyes.

"You said that before."

Stiles' lips twitch.

"And I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

Derek feels his fangs retract, and sighs.

"I don't like people touching me. I prefer to initiate contact. And I'd rather not... let you see me, with the lights on. I don't mind being in pain."

Stiles nods.

"Okay." He pauses. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Derek glances at the bag in the corner.

"You can tell me what's in the bag."

Stiles nods, getting up from his seat.

"Do you recognize it?"

"It's a purse. They all look alike."

Stiles grins at that.

"You must have been a real ladykiller in New York, huh?"

Derek tries to smile, but he doesn't share the joke. He lets Stiles unzip the purse, and he takes a good, long whiff.

"Well?"

Derek sniffs again. The scents are mostly covered by earth and ashes, but the bag is made of real leather, and the items inside don't smell too rotten, protected from the elements by the strong material and what remained of the house. 

"I don't smell her. But it's been years. Her scent might have washed away."

Stiles shifts through the contents, opening an inner pocket.

"Good thing she left her wallet then." He hands Derek a battered old drivers' license. "This her?"

He holds the picture delicately. She's smiling. Laura always said if she was going to get pulled over, she'd want to make a good first impression, so she smiled even though the DMV employee taking the photo told her not to. She'd worn contacts that day, to make sure her eyes didn't obscure the photo, a trick their mom had taught them when she'd wanted some decent family photos. 

"Yeah," he rasps. "This was Laura's."

Ultimately, there's not much in there. A mildewy book about vampires she'd been raving about when she left. One completely unusable tampon (embarrassing). Her passport. An extra stick of deodorant. Her car keys, all rusty now, but the swiss army knife on her keychain is still good. Derek opens it carefully, examining the blade. 

"Seems kind of silly. When you have claws."

Derek shrugs.

"It belonged to our dad. He was human."

Stiles nods, laying down the contents of Laura's wallet.

"Well. We have her license, her library cards, a metrocard that expired in 2013, her checkbook, her keys, and approximately three pounds sterling. Not accounting for the state of the economy post-apocalypse."

Derek reaches for the keys, examining them. The keychain is familiar; the swiss army knife and a Camero logo dangle from the loop. The keys, however, are different. 

"These are new." He removes the strange ones from the hook. "This, and this one, I've never seen these before."

Stiles' brows furrow.

"You're sure? It's been years."

"I used to borrow her car all the time. She only had one set of keys."

"And these ones are different." Stiles glances at the keys, then Derek, then the keys again, then the purse, and finally he lands on Derek. "So. Do you know what they're for?"

Derek shrugs.

"They're not labeled."

"You're not getting anything else from them?"

He grimaces.

"They just smell like rust and old dirt. There's nothing left to get."

"No. I mean. Does it... remind you of anything? 

Derek grimaces.

"No. They look like safe deposit box keys. But they're not marked or anything. I have no idea what they might go to." He grips the keys in his fist. "You almost got us both killed for nothing."

Stiles flails a little.

"It's not nothing! And neither of us came close to dying, trust me."

Derek eyes him.

"Then why have you been watching me all night?"

At that, Stiles nearly falls of his seat, his reaction seizes him so violently.

"I haven't! Well, okay, but just cus I'm worried, all right? Not about you getting injured today, but about you in general! It's not weird or anything. Promise."

His heart's beating fast.

"Do you watch over every stray dog this way?"

Stiles purses his lips.

"Not everyone's as beat up as you are when they come in."

Evasion. It's a technique he's sensitive to; it's something humans can do to avoid lying without having to tell the truth they're avoiding. Tell a different truth, don't get caught in a lie. 

"Stiles."

"Yeah."

"Why are you watching me?"

Stiles looks away.

"It's not anything bad."

Derek tenses.

"I can kill you before you make a sound. Tell me why you're keeping me here before I break out."

Stiles makes a sound like he's accidentally swallowed his own tongue, choking on his breath as he flaps his arms.

"I'm not keeping you here! You can go, seriously! I won't stop you."

Derek stands.

"Tell me why you're watching me."

Stiles squirms in his seat.

"Do you think I would have taken you out today if I was planning on keeping you? I'm not trying to trick you, and I'm not standing guard or anything, please-"

Derek holds one of Stiles' flapping arms, feeling his pulse with his thumb, worried he's too angry (or maybe just too desperate), to hear clearly. Because that all sounds like the truth. And Stiles smells frightened, but he's being threatened by a werewolf, he'd be stupid not to be frightened. He doesn't smell like deceit. 

He gets close to him, can feel his frantic breath on his face.

"Tell me why."

Stiles closes his eyes.

"I like you."

The quiet is punctuated by Stiles' gasping breaths. He's not having a panic attack, but he's close to one. 

"Say that again."

Stiles opens his eyes.

"Derek, seriously, please-"

"Say. It. Again."

Stiles gulps.

"I was watching you because I like you. I didn't want you to have to go through your sister's stuff alone."

Derek lots go of Stiles' arm.

"And by like, you mean-"

"I meant what I said before! You don't owe me anything for helping you. Just ignore it. Forget about it."

Derek sits back down, his hands in his lap.

"Ignore what?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." Stiles licks his lips. "I should leave."

Stiles heads for the door, and Derek doesn't say anything, staring at his palms. Stiles pauses at the doorframe, turning his head so his voice carries (unnecessary courtesy, his ears are fine).

"If you need to leave, if you aren't here when I get up tomorrow, I get it. I'm sorry. I want you to feel safe here. But I won't make you stay if you don't. I'm sorry I ruined it for you."

Derek watches him leave, listens to him climbing into the loft up above. Removing his boots and shirt. Settling into bed. Taking a few heavy breaths. Turning over. Grumbling into the pillow. And then, his breaths grow softer. Slower. Sleeping. 

Derek lies awake on his side, listening. He watches the sun rise, light peeking in through the wooden beams. He listens until Stiles wakes up, and then he closes his eyes, waiting for him to come back down. He feels Stiles checking in on him, hears the soft sigh of... gratitude? Relief? Shame? He can't tell. 

He finally falls asleep to the sound of Stiles preparing supplies for the day. 

He doesn't know why he stayed. 


	10. Implementation is Opaque

When Stiles gets back from his morning rounds (pain remedy for Ms. Blake, check-up on Allison and the baby, cavity removed from a very ornery werewolf who thought he wouldn't _get those_ after the bite), Derek's awake. He doesn't look like he slept well, but he slept, and he's still there. Staring at the keys, rubbing the cracked leather of the old purse between his fingers. 

"Hey."

Stiles stands in the doorway, not sure that he's welcome until Derek waves him inside. Stiles begins putting things away. After he's done, he restlessly starts touching things, tidying a drawer that doesn't really need to be tidied, toying with the jar of over-worked pencils by the window. He avoids looking at Derek.

"Have you eaten anything?"

Derek shrugs.

"I don't need much."

He's immediately guilty; judging by the sun it's late afternoon, and Derek hasn't eaten since their light dinner the previous evening. 

"I should have left you something, I wasn't thinking. I'll can go get some food, I'll be right-"

"Stiles."

Stiles has half a foot out the door, but he comes back inside anyway, though he keeps his eyes aimed everywhere except at Derek. He leans against the wall, taking comfort in the sturdy timbers. 

"You didn't have to stay."

He hears Derek standing. 

"I believe you."

Stiles tries to keep himself from fidgeting.

"Do you trust me?"

"That's not what I said. I said I believe you. I believe you want to help me, and I believe that you don't want to hurt me."

Stiles nods.

"But people change. Circumstances change. You don't trust me because you can't trust that things won't change. That's okay. And, I mean, if you don't want to stay with me, I can set you up with someone else. It's not an issue if-"

"Stiles. Let me. Please."

Stiles turns around. Derek is looking at him, and he's not flinching, his eyelids aren't twitching. He's just looking. Stiles nods. Derek gestures at one of the chairs in his makeshift office/kitchen. Stiles sits, and Derek sits across from him, leaning on the table. 

"It's not just... that." His mouth works. Stiles waits. "I don't... I don't know how to feel around you. You're honest. I keep looking for lies and all I find is... you were only lying last night so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable. That's... I don't know what to do with that."

Stiles rubs his fingers together.

"What do you want to do?"

Derek smiles bitterly, and then moves as if to wipe the smile off his face.

"What do I want? I want to fix everything. I want to go back in time and undo whatever happened. I want to meet you before, or in another life, and find out why I feel safe around you. Because I think I stopped being able to feel anything real about another person a long time ago." He gnashes his teeth. "And I _hate_ that I let that be taken away from me. I should have fought _harder_."

Stiles leans across the table, placing his hand just out of Derek's reach, there if he wants it. 

"It's okay. Whatever happened, you did what you could to stay alive. You can't expect yourself to come out the other side completely okay."

Derek growls.

"You asked me what I want. I _want_ to be okay and I _want_ to know if anything I'm feeling is really mine."

Stiles closes his proffered hand, and just as he begins to slide away, Derek grabs him. Not enough to bruise, not even hard, really, and Stiles is amazed at the control Derek has over his superhuman abilities. He waits, hoping his pulse isn't too unsettling for Derek to hear. He hasn't given any indication that he's noticed, but Derek is practically impossible to read. 

Derek swallows.

"I want you to talk for a while. Anything. Not about this. Just talk."

Stiles flails a little, flustered by the abrupt change.

"Anything?"

"Please."

Stiles bites his lip.

"I. Um. I used to be afraid of needles. Like, I'd faint just looking at one. In a really manly way, obviously." He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. "So, I really shouldn't have become the default paramedic here. Like, anyone ever would have been more qualified than I was. But people just kept dropping like flies all around me. And I got sick of it. Suddenly I was too mad to pass out when I saw blood. And I looked down one night, and I was stitching Braeden up, and I was so fucking pissed because another one of my friends was going to die. Except she didn't. I had her blood on my hands, and she was still breathing."

"Anger was your anchor."

Stiles nods, knowing a little bit about anchors and what they mean for werewolves.

"Yeah. I guess it worked like that."

"Anger's my anchor too."

Stiles strokes Derek's fingers where their hands touch.

"Do you need me to keep talking?"

Derek thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.

"No. I need you to start thinking of banks in the area that had safety deposit boxes." He glances at Laura's keys. "Hopefully whatever she had in there wasn't valuable-looking enough to get looted."

Stiles looks at the ceiling, trying to remember what the world looked like ten years ago. He knows there was an ATM near his old house, and another one uptown, but he doesn't think either of them had more than a lobby attached to them. It's not like he did a lot of banking when he was a teenager. 

"I think we'll need to look at a map." He pinches his nose. "Which means waiting until Lydia and the others get back. Fuck."

Derek sits up a little straighter.

"Get back?"

Stiles nods.

"There's a group of raiders further north. We got wind that they have a couple of enslaved werewolves. A group went out to try and rescue them. They're not supposed to be back for another day." He grimaces. "And all of the maps and stuff will be locked away in our black box."

Derek raises an eyebrow at that.

"Black box?"

"It's a security measure. Information's the most valuable thing we have here. If something happens to us, that's the best chance we have to preserve it."

Derek studies the table.

"So. We can't start looking until they get back."

Stiles shrugs.

"I can take you through the old town if you want. But I'd rather wait until they get back. It can get pretty dangerous out there. I usually don't go without an armed escort."

"Armed escort?" Derek is smirking. "What happened to your no guns policy?"

"Hey. Unlike Batman, I don't have unlimited resources and ninja training. I'm just the guy in the ambulance."

"So. I guess we wait."

Stiles rubs his thumb against Derek's palm. "Sorry dude." He sighs. Stiles is glad, today went better than he'd expected. He's beyond confused, but Derek doesn't want him to go away, and he's decided that won't mean anything until Derek tells him it does. For now, he's just relieved he didn't scare Derek away, because he hates to think what would happen to him now if he left Beacon Hills. He'd been practically torn to shreds when Stiles found him; really, Derek's lucky to be alive. Stiles doesn't think Derek is likely to get lucky twice.

He scratches his cheek, and grimaces when his fingers come away grimy. It's been a while since he's had a real bath; clean water's too scarce to be wasted on luxuries like that. 

He starts to smile.

"When's the last time you took a bath?"


	11. Clean Anew

Derek watches the woods, hyper-focused on the threat of predators and danger, but he can't hear anything, human or other. Just wind and trees and water. 

Stiles leads, holding low hanging branches to the side for him. He smiles back at Derek every time he does it, and Derek honestly doesn't know what to do with that. Is he being friendly? _Too_ friendly? Over-compensating for the awkwardness he's exhibiting with every fumbling step, tentative glance, and the gentle flush of his cheeks. Like he's embarrassed for himself. And with every smile, he's trying to tell Derek that everything's fine. Except every time Derek has ever heard that everything is fine, it usually means everything is about to go to shit. And it's getting on his nerves a little.

"Are we almost there?"

"Sure. You should be able to smell it soon."

Derek sniffs the air, but all he smells is dirt and trees. Nothing special.

"Are you sure we're not lost?"

"Yes! I'm sure. Jeez. Have a little faith. I'm too old to be getting lost in the woods."

Derek just grunts and follows. He does begin to smell, _something_ , after a few more minutes of walking in silence. It smells like an old campsite, and dry, like something that's been burning. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to understand what he smells. 

Stiles looks back at him, grinning. He points up ahead at the river.

"There."

Derek looks past Stiles' shoulder. The water is moving quickly; at least, that's what he thinks at first. But then he realizes, it's not moving quickly, the whiteness he mistook for foam is actually...

"Ashes."

Stiles' head bobs enthusiastically.

"Yup! There was a huge fire at the top of the mountain a few months ago, the river's been contaminated with ash ever since. Some of the lye separated from the ash, and there you have it: natural bath water." He nods. "There's a grotto up ahead where the current isn't as strong. It’s diluted enough that we can get in without getting burned. Come on."

They trek for another half a mile, following the path of the river. They head down a steep hill, the river bending into a heavy fall beside them. Stiles stumbles over himself, even though he's been here before. Derek finds himself reaching out, as if to catch him, and keep him from falling, but Stiles always catches himself on a tree branch or a rock before Derek can touch him. Derek silently wonders what he would do if Stiles didn't catch himself in time. 

Stiles leads him to a cave, and Derek follows him inside. The sunlight is dim, peeking through a few cracks in the ceiling and around the entrance. It smells like moss, and cool water. Stiles gestures at the pool.

"It's not as deep as it looks. It's just the light. Um..." He glances at Derek, not looking at him directly, and Derek doesn't know what to make of the bewildering role-reversal. "There's, um, a corner over there, where the rock juts out. I'll be back there."

So he won't be able to see anything, Derek mentally supplies. Stiles is already heading for the other side.

"Just yell if you need anything. Not that. Um. It's not dangerous around here or anything. Just if you need. Um. Anything."

Derek smiles, even though he knows Stiles can't see him. There's a flush creeping up the other man's neck. 

Derek listens to the sound of Stiles undressing before he begins to do the same, shedding his borrowed clothes and stepping into the water. It's cold; he shouldn't be surprised, considering the time of year, but it startles him all the same. He closes his eyes as he sinks in, leaning against the water-softened stone of the cave. There's sand beneath his toes, smooth and muddy. 

He allows himself feel like he's floating, enjoying the weightlessness of the water, letting his body acclimate to the temperature. It's nice. He doesn't remember the last time he had a bath, but he suspects his skin is going to be a shade lighter when he comes out. He sighs, and begins rubbing at his skin. On the other side of the grotto, he can hear Stiles doing the same. 

It's been a frustrating day for both of them. Or, Derek's assuming that it's been frustrating for Stiles. They haven't really talked since they left the stead. Derek's still confused about what was decided. Is he supposed to ignore Stiles? Leave? Use himself? He shudders, thinking of Kate, and wishing that his memories of her had been the ones that he couldn't reach. He should never have accepted her help. He should have known better. 

He bites his lip. He _does_ know better. 

And he knows Stiles _is_ better. He's not asking for anything. He's not keeping Derek locked up. And when he smiles, he's not lying underneath it. Not telling half-truths and deceptions. 

And Derek. He rubs his eyes, wincing when a little water creeps in, stinging on contact. He doesn't know what to make of himself. He likes Stiles. He thinks he's funny. And he doesn't cringe when he looks at him. Derek glances down at his body, at the scars littering his chest, knowing there are worse ones on his back. Stiles must have seen them when he took Derek in. Dirt and blood can only hide so much. But he hasn't asked. Maybe it's because he already knows the answer. 

He grits his teeth. He's _not_ indecisive. He's been taking care of himself, alone, for years. He should know how to handle a guy several years his junior. It shouldn't be this _hard_. 

He doesn't realize he's growled until he hears Stiles tentatively asking, "Derek?"

He winces.

"It's nothing Stiles."

"Are you sure? I mean, you're not mad or anything? I can leave if you need me to."

"Don't."

He hears Stiles gulp.

"Don't leave?"

"Don't pity me."

His words echo off the walls of the grotto. He stares at his hands underneath the water. He hears Stiles getting out.

"I'm sorry. I'll wait outside. Just let me know when you want to leave."

Derek closes his eyes. He makes a decision. Quietly, he steps through the water, around the rock where Stiles is. There's less space on the other side, and Stiles' calculated consideration gives fuel to his determination. Stiles isn't looking in his direction, instead, he's toweling off, staring at the wall. 

"Or I guess you can leave without me, and I'll be out there waiting all night, which is okay, I guess, but-"

"Stiles."

Stiles doesn't turn around right away, but his shoulders tense. 

"What are you doing?" His voice rasps. 

Derek knows it's dark, knows Stiles won't be able to see as much, not with his human eyes. It makes him bolder.

"Come back in."

Stiles turns around, pointedly not looking anywhere but Derek's face.

"Why?"

Derek offers him a hand. 

"Because you asked me what I want."

Stiles stares at him, barely breathing. Wordlessly, he reaches, taking Derek's hand in his. He lets his towel drop as he steps gingerly back into the water. Derek gets a quick eyeful of scrawny, pale skin, before Stiles is submerged again. They stand a few feet apart, not touching anywhere but their hands, clasped just above the water. Stiles is looking at him like he can't look away; Derek feels much the same. 

"Is this okay?" Stiles' voice is a faint whisper.

Derek grips his hand tightly. 

"I think so." He sucks in a deep breath. "Will you... kiss me?"

Stiles steps closer, stroking Derek's cheek with his free hand.

"Would you like me to?"

Derek can only nod, closing his eyes as he feels Stiles' lips against his. It's gentle at first, waiting for Derek to pull away, to change his mind, to freak out. Derek decides that's not going to happen. He uses his grip on Stiles' hand to pull him closer, wrapping Stiles' arm around his waist before he uses both hands to grasp his cheeks, kissing him firmly. Stiles is startled, but he quickly agrees to Derek's agenda, stroking his skin, punctuating every caress with tender scratches from his fingernails. 

Derek growls, sticking his tongue in Stiles' mouth; he receives a grateful moan in return. He moves his hands down Stiles' neck, following quickly with his lips. He licks underneath Stiles' ear, nibbles beneath his chin, sucks at the space between his neck and his shoulder. Stiles pants, unable to form words, though his mouth is working as if he wants to. 

Derek grasps Stiles' hips, grinding against him, and he feels Stiles twitching, rolling his hips in response. He smiles, placing a wet kiss on Stiles' cheek. 

"Yes."

Stiles blinks, as if he's trying to remember what the word 'yes' means.

"Yes t-to what?"

Derek bites at Stiles' jaw, enjoying the way Stiles is trembling everywhere he's touched.

"This is very, very okay."

Stiles closes his eyes as Derek's hands begin to find their way lower, teasing around his belly, his lower back.

"D-does that mean you're n-ot going to s-stop?"

Derek surprises himself with his own laughter, scraping his fingers against Stiles' abdomen, pressing him closer, so that their bodies are flush against each other underwater. 

"Not unless you ask me to."

Stiles giggles, wrapping his fingers tightly around Derek's hips.

"Not a chance in hell."

Derek reaches between their legs, holding them both in his hand. Stiles gasps as Derek begins to thrust, and just that contact is enough to send sparks up and down his spine. He presses his lips to Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply, his scent is so good, like clean air and pine sap and salt. Stiles is whimpering, and Derek shifts so he'll be able to hold his weight better; not a moment later it feels like Stiles' legs turn to jelly, though that might have something to do with the way Derek is stroking him. 

Derek nibbles at his collarbone, careful not to break the skin, and he grins when Stiles groans, fisting his fingers in Derek's hair. Derek takes that as encouragement, wandering with his tongue, laving at a nipple. Stiles jerks; he must be sensitive there. Derek experiments with this theory, smirking when Stiles' legs begin to twitch when he sucks. 

Toying with Stiles feels endlessly entertaining, but there's a growing urgency in the heat between his legs. He needs more contact. He needs it fiercely. 

He rises from Stiles' chest (and snickers at the disappointed whine that elicits), kissing him, sucking on his bottom lip before he presses his tongue inside Stiles' mouth again. He tastes the noises Stiles is making, swallowing them from his throat. He lets go for a moment, pressing Stiles against the wall of the grotto and wrapping Stiles' legs around his hips. Stiles hugs his shoulders, his fingers fluttering against his skin when Derek begins to thrust against him. Stiles is close, he smells close, and the scent of his arousal is setting Derek's teeth on edge. 

"Come for me. Stiles, come for me."

Stiles practically sobs beneath him, pupils shot wide. 

"Touch me. Please."

Derek complies, kissing him as he does so. He wraps a hand around Stiles, stroking him in the water as he grinds in between his thighs. Stiles gasps, and tightens in Derek's grip. 

He kisses him through his orgasm, lapping at his lips, tasting him. 

Stiles goes limp in his arms. Derek holds him, rubbing against his skin until he feels his own body tightening, feels it tingling in his fingers. He groans, deep in his chest, and comes.

They're both breathing heavily. He's not ready to let Stiles go. He looks at the water between them, awash with their commingling semen. He nuzzles Stiles' cheek, closing his eyes, listening to his heartbeat. Elevated, and he knows why.

"Derek?"

He's not ready for words yet. Instead, he kisses Stiles again, enjoying the taste of him. Stiles responds lazily, his tongue darting left and right. 

They separate, and end up looking into each others' eyes. And it doesn't make Derek hurt, or feel wrong, not even in the back of his mind. All it does is make him feel warm. 

"Thank you."

Stiles hiccups. 

"For what? That was incredible."

He smiles, pulling Stiles into a tight hug. 

"Exactly."

Stiles nestles into the embrace, stroking the back of Derek's neck. 

"We should get dressed. Before it gets dark."

"Mhm." Derek agrees. Neither of them move.

"Maybe in a bit." Stiles kisses him again. Derek lets him, rubbing small circles into the other man's skin. It feels good. He feels good. Loose. 

They don't make it back before dark. 


	12. Sacred to Wodenaz

The workhouse smells like smoke and sweat, acrid and tangy and bilious. It reeks. Hot steam billows up to the ceiling, and the floor is coated in a thick layer of blood and soot, rough and tacky beneath his feet. Despite the heat, bodies move all around him. The foremen and slaves alike sense his presence, and he hears their demeanor shift. An undercurrent of fear trails in his wake. He knows all avert their eyes as he passes. 

“My lord,” they whisper, returning to their labor.

The Leanwulf paces through slowly, listening to the heartbeats surrounding him. Most are old and weak, though a few of the newer ones have some small strength left. The sounds stutter and jump, but all out of fear. There is no spark of defiance left here. They’ve seen what defiance will earn them. He scowls at the thought. _They think they’ve seen._

At the end of the corridor is a heavy door, bolted and locked. He finds it by touch, familiar with the layout of the room. He has the key ready in his hand, and the locks open with a dull thud. The hinges creak as the door swings open. The air is cooler, and cleaner. There’s no smoke or toil in this cell. It’s merely a waiting room. It’s not comfortable, no, this general has failed too many times to have earned comfort, but it’s not as hard and cruel as the labor camps. He can’t see, but the Leanwulf knows the man inside is grinning, the shape of his mouth coats his words, slick and sour. 

“My lord. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I have a task for you.”

This heart beats steady. There’s no fear, no misery.  _Too secure_ , he thinks. He hears a rustling, and knows his man is waiting for his orders. He closes the door behind him, and the sounds of the factory are muted.

“What can I do for you?”

The Leanwulf smiles, his teeth sharp and sure.

“It’s time to let your friend loose.”

The heartbeat quickens; it’s been a long time since he’s let this general have any fun. Not clever enough to be useful more often, but expendable enough to go on a suicide mission, if need be. 

“What is our target?”

The Leanwulf taps his fingers on his cane, considering how much information is necessary.

“The man you are hunting is Derek Hale.”

He hears the general stiffen, and relishes the surprise.

“I saw him. We all did. He’s-”

“No longer a threat to what we have here. And he’s going to stay that way.” He smirks. “They saw what I needed them to see. Derek Hale dead, for the crime of defying me.”

He hears the nod and continues as his general begins to pace.

“This needs to be conducted delicately. No one inside can know that he lives.”

“He won’t be alive for much longer.” The general cracks his knuckles. “My friend and I will put him down.”


	13. a little more bite and a little less bark

Stiles feels warm the whole way home. 

Derek laces their fingers together, and doesn't let go until they're in sight of the wall. He lets go with a shy smile, and feels himself flush when Derek kisses him. 

"It's not that I'm..." ashamed, guilty, worried, afraid. 

Stiles shrugs.

"It's cool. Whatever you want."

Derek grins.

"I want to go back to the cabin."

Stiles can't nod enthusiastically enough, and the walk back takes about half the time it took to get there. If anyone notices the skip in his step as they're cleared for entrance, nobody mentions it, though he's pretty sure the werewolves present might be able to smell the reason behind it if they're so inclined. 

Derek has his hands on him as soon as the door's closed behind them. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's broad shoulders, enjoying the sensation of being manhandled a little, his back pressed up against the wall. 

Still, he likes to give as good as he gets, and soon he's nipping at Derek's lips, digging his fingers into his waist, his thigh, growling like the puny human he is (and he's so proud of himself for that shameless embarrassment; Derek's laugh is worth all the ridiculous behavior in the world). Derek strokes his cheek, wrinkling his nose when Stiles decides to try and take a bite out of his fingers. 

"I want you."

Stiles shudders at the depth of Derek's sex voice. 

"How?"

Derek's lips travel across his neck.

"Underneath me. Making all the noise in the world. Writhing. I want to do everything you can think of."

Stiles grips Derek's arms, trying to maintain some balance, though he's failing miserably. 

"You might need to help me to bed. I think my legs just turned to jelly."

Derek kisses him, and then hauls him up, steadying his grip underneath Stiles' thighs. Getting the idea, Stiles wraps his legs around Derek, and this position is just _perfect_ , because if he grinds his hips at just the right angle, the friction is delicious, and now he's looking down at Derek's face and kissing him from above, which gives him a bunch of different options. He feels like he has a tactical advantage, he can take control of the kiss, even as Derek's carrying him to-

"Wait, not in there!" Stiles flails, pointing at his loft. "Up there. I have... um, supplies."

"As you telling me Beacon Hills has lube?"

Stiles grins.

"And dental dams. And condoms. Which granted, werewolves don't really need, unless you're worried about getting pregnant. Which we are not. Oh, and a couple rolls of PVC tape." He grins. "I stockpiled everything I could find. Seriously, what kind of doctor do you think I am?"

Derek nuzzles at his neck. 

"You seem pretty qualified to me."

Stiles coos; he'd forgotten how sensitive the skin underneath his chin is. 

"I don't know," he gasps as Derek begins to suck. "It doesn't seem like you've conducted a very thorough investigation."

Derek chuckles

"I think I want to fix that."

Stiles leans back.

"You think?"

"I _know_."

With that, Derek hauls him over his shoulder, heading for the ladder to Stiles' loft. Stiles is about to protest, until a fit of giggles overtakes him, because he's about to go to bed with a werewolf he found on the side of the road, and that werewolf happens to be devastatingly attractive and terrifyingly powerful and totally _into_ him. 

"What's funny?"

Stiles grins.

"Oh nothing. Just admiring the view."

He thinks Derek is making an extra effort to jostle him after that. 

But when Derek lays him down on the well-worn mattress, he is nothing but gentle. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek again, rocking against him lazily, smiling as Derek leans down to press his lips against him. Stiles grasps Derek's waist, fingers tangling in the fabric of Derek's shirt.

He lets go when he feels a hand on his wrist.

"Derek?"

Derek swallows.

"Leave it on."

"Okay." Stiles licks his lips. "Derek, we don't..."

"Shut up." Derek winces. "I'm sorry. I don't mean-"

"It's okay!" Stiles wiggles up the bed, giving Derek space. "I won't be mad."

Derek shakes his head.

"It's not... stop moving, please?"

Stiles nods, waiting. Derek groans.

"It's just a shirt, Stiles. It's just one weird thing I'm asking you to do. I'm not asking you to stop, or to treat me like I'm fragile."

Stiles nods.

"I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry."

"I..." Derek shakes his head. "I think I'm overreacting."

Stiles reaches for his hand, and Derek doesn't withdraw. He laces their fingers together, and Stiles rubs his thumb along Derek's skin.

"So what? Overreact all you want. This," he waves his hands. "It only means what you want it to mean."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"That's very selfless of you."

Stiles grins.

"Don't get suspicious on me. I'm not actually being selfless."

Derek strokes his cheek with his free hand.

"No?"

"Nah. I want whatever you're willing to give me. So it's fine. It's really fine."

Derek smiles, just a small twitch at the corners of his lips.

"Can we start from where we left off?"

Stiles edges closer to him.

"The kissing or the groping or the grinding?"

"Yes." Derek hisses, and presses his lips against Stiles'. He groans, tugging at Derek's shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. Derek's body is like a furnace, hard and soft in surprising places, and Stiles spreads his legs wider, trying to make space for him. Derek responds with a deep growl, rutting against Stiles, and the friction is both too much and not enough. 

"Derek." Stiles begins to claw at his pants. "Can I..."

Derek just nods, pressing wet kisses against Stiles' neck as he untucks Stiles' shirt for him. Stiles fumbles with the buttons, getting distracted by the open-mouthed kisses Derek's leaving on his stomach, his chest, his ribs. Derek's stubble is tickling his nipples, but he's not complaining. Though he thinks Derek may have caught on to his extra sensitivity there, because he's got a playful gleam in his eye, and Stiles didn't think he could _get_ any more turned on without having been touched below the belt yet. 

"What's that look for?" He manages to gasp.

Derek just grins and licks a long, messy line across Stiles' left nipple. His back arches without his permission, and he drags his fingers over Derek's back, the fabric of his shirt catching under his nails.

"D-do that again."

Derek does, and this time he nips at it, too. Stiles shrieks. 

"Careful. The whole 'stead is gonna hear us if you keep that up."

Derek rubs his hand along the inside of Stiles' thigh, squeezing gently.

"Maybe I want them to hear." He tugs at Stiles' pants. He was able to unbutton them, but that's as far as he got. "May I?"

Stiles nods.

"Be my guest, big guy."

Derek leans down and kisses him, coaxing Stiles into opening his mouth, pressing his tongue between his lips. Stiles sighs, shifting his hips to help Derek get him out of his pants. His cock is flushed and leaking, and Derek rubs his thumb against the head; Stiles is beyond glad that he'd chosen to go commando that day. when Derek lays a hand on him, not holding, just pressing against him, he can't help but roll his hips against Derek's palm and it feels _amazing_. 

"The b-box... underneath the bed frame." Stiles is aware he's stuttering, and hopes that Derek understands what he's talking about.

Derek reaches under the bed with his free hand, and comes back with a familiar bottle. 

"You're sure?"

Stiles nods viciously.

"Hell yeah."

Derek starts to rub his thumb lower, rubbing slow circles around his entrance.

"You’re so good."

Stiles can feel himself flushing. He tries to come up with a witty retort, but Derek has one hand wrapped around his cock and another on his rear and he's momentarily at a loss for words. 

Derek opens the bottle with his teeth, squirting some of the lube onto his fingers. He rubs it, warming it up before it touches Stiles' skin. He starts by rubbing slow circles, not pressing, just coaxing. Stiles takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm down a release the coil of tension in his gut. Derek kisses his stomach, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin around his bellybutton. 

“You smell amazing Stiles.”

When he finally presses inside, Stiles whimpers. Derek keeps kissing him, stroking him gently, keeping pace with the shallow penetration. Stiles rocks into it, alternately hissing and moaning.

Derek leans up and nuzzles his knee.

"Good?"

"More."

He chuckles, but Stiles feels him slipping another finger inside him, searching. He shifts, trying to give Derek a better angle. After a few more seconds of trial-and-error thrusting, Derek hits him deep enough and Stiles _yelps_. 

"Bullseye Derek."

Derek crawls forward on his elbows and kisses him. 

"More?"

Stiles nods.

"Almost ready."

Derek rubs his cock against Stiles' thigh, his breath hot against Stiles' neck.

"You have no idea how good you feel Stiles. How tight you are." He punctuates every word with a slide of his fingers, teasing around the delicate spot inside Stiles, grazing but never really _touching_ , not enough. 

"Ahh fuck... Derek..."

Derek presses a third finger inside him, thrusting in small circles, stretching him open. Stiles grasps Derek's shoulders, whining with every stroke. Derek doesn't say anything, but Stiles can see him grinning as Derek begins to stroke him again, letting his precum slick his movements. Stiles ruts into it, impaling himself with every thrust. 

"Now. Derek, please."

Derek kisses his thigh.

"Like this?"

Stiles nods.

"I want to see you."

Derek lines himself up, letting his fingers slide out. Stiles cringes, feeling empty, but then he feels Derek there, pushing gently. Stiles presses down against him, sighing as Derek's balls hit his skin. 

He feels Derek's lips against his, and realizes that he must have closed his eyes. 

"Stiles?"

"Mm?"

Derek nuzzles his cheek.

"How do you feel?"

"Full."

"Do you want to stop?"

Stiles opens his eyes, wide.

"Hell no."

Derek chuckles, and eases out, only to thrust back in. Stiles sighs, opening up his legs and bracing himself against the mattress. He licks into Derek's mouth, rolling his hips against him. Derek sneaks his free hand underneath Stiles, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. He begins to thrust a little deeper, swallowing Stiles' moans with a growl before he breaks the kiss. 

"Harder?"

"Please Derek."

Derek complies, moving faster. His fist pumps Stiles' cock, his grip just tight enough to provide friction without quite bringing him over the edge. Stiles bites his lip, groaning. 

"Please. Derek. Get me off."

Derek slows momentarily, changing the angle of his thrusts. When he resumes, he hits Stiles' prostate every time.

"Like this?"

Stiles whimpers in response, nodding. Derek's hand speeds up. Stiles' legs begin to shake, his hips moving more erratically. It doesn't creep up on him, and when he comes it's like an electric current in his blood. He feels his cock jerking in Derek's hand, feels himself spilling all over his stomach, and he shudders through the aftershocks. Derek thrusts shallowly, groaning on top of him, and Stiles feels sticky and wet there, too. 

They kiss, rocking together gently, until the stimulation becomes too much, and Derek pulls out. He slides his fingers down between Stiles' legs, toying with the liquid spilling out of him. Stiles is about to ask what that mewling sound is before he realizes it's him. He leans back against the pillow, looking at Derek. His hair is a mess, his pupils are _blown_ , and his lips are swollen and red. He looks beautiful. 

"That was freaking amazing."

Derek kisses his chest, sniffing his skin. 

"What you said earlier. About this meaning whatever I want it to mean."

Stiles nods, stroking Derek's hair. 

"Yeah. Still true, by the way."

Derek draws lazy circles on Stiles' stomach, but his body is tense.

"What if I don't know?"

Stiles shrugs, coiling a lock of Derek's hair round his forefinger. 

"That's okay. There doesn't have to be a word for it. Just let me know what you're comfortable with."

Derek nods, thinking. Then:

"I don't like being touched in public." He looks at Stiles, not wincing. "I don't care what people know. But I don't want anyone else to see."

"Okay." Stiles watches him. "Is there anything else?"

His lips work.

"No one else?"

"Believe me Derek, there is no one else in this 'stead that hasn't already gotten sick of me. It's a small place, and there’s not much to do without TV.”

"That's not what I..." He shrugs. "I mean no one else but you. With me."

Stiles rakes his fingers through Derek's hair, settling in between his shoulder blades. He waits until Derek can look at him again. 

"Do you feel bad, asking for these things?"

Derek shrugs.

"I shouldn't."

Stiles nods. Derek grasps his ribcage.

"And you shouldn't either. You have to tell me what _you_ want."

Stiles chuckles.

"Derek. I want to fall in love and get a house with a picket fence and have 2.5 kids. I want to go out on dates on Friday nights, or at least remember what day of the week it _is_ , since that stopped having relevance to me years ago. I want to go back to not being a hero." He shrugs. "I want what I can't have. So I'll take what I can get with you. Because I like you. And because my suspicions were correct. You are _excellent_ in bed."

He winks, and Derek flushes.

"I could probably build you a picket fence."

Stiles cackles.

"At least take me out to dinner first, Sourwolf."


	14. Known Quantity, Unknown Quality

Breakfast isn't awkward.

Derek leans across the table and steals bites off of Stiles' plate, and Stiles retaliates by playing footsie with him. And apparently Stiles believes that footsie is a game that can have a winner. Derek lets himself enjoy the morning. He's comfortable, he's safe, he's eating, and he's happy. 

Stiles toys with his empty fork, grinning.

"Good morning, eh?"

Derek shrugs.

"Not bad."

Stiles snorts, muffling the sound with his hand. Derek stands, removing their empty dishes. When he returns, he stands behind Stiles, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek, his neck, pulling aside his shirt to get to his shoulder. Stiles scrunches his nose above him.

"What are you doing?"

"You have moles."

"I do?" Stiles scrunches his nose. "I haven't seen a mirror in a while."

"They're cute."

"In a manly way, right?"

"Yes." He snickers. "Very."

Stiles leans into his touch, running his fingers through his hair, and Derek suppresses a sound like a purr. 

"We can't stay here all day, can we?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"God I wish. No rest for the wicked."

Derek releases him, sighing. 

 "So, as far as where I'm staying..."

"You can stay here." Stiles shrugs. "You can stay anywhere, really. If you're thinking long-term, I can ask around and see if we can't set you up somewhere, but since you'll mostly be going out with me, it might be easier to stick around."

Derek nods, not bothering to say that he's not really thinking about the long-term. He _needs_ to figure out what Laura left for him here, and he needs to do it soon. If he succeeds, there hopefully won't _be_ a long-term. It'll mean a complete restart.

"You said Lydia and the others were due back today?"

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his head. "I got a radio from them while you were still asleep. They're bringing back a couple of wolves. Nobody was seriously injured, but it sounds like everyone was shaken up."

Derek nods.

"So they'll be staying here?"

"A few of them might be. They'll probably get set up with the other refugees though." He chews his lip. "It's kind of a logistical nightmare. I guess they weren't expecting to rescue that many, and the guy they've really been looking for still hasn't been found..." He shakes his head. "But none of that's gonna affect you. We'll look at the maps and figure out a plan."

"You said we'd need an armed escort?"

Stile shrugs.

"Depending on where we're going, Lydia might insist. There are hunters up north, and mermaids on the coast, and harpies and golems and packs of rabid wolves where the old town used to be. We're surrounded on all sides by Halloween costumes."

Derek doesn't relish the idea of spending his time outside the wall, facing what sounds like perilous conditions, with strangers. But it sounds wiser than going alone, which is what his instincts are telling him to do. 

He hears the engines outside before Stiles can hear the gate opening. 

"That's them?"

Stiles nods.

"Nobody else is outside. I should meet them at the guardhouse, make sure everyone's really okay." Stiles stands, glancing at him. "Do you want to come? I can always use an extra set of hands when I'm dealing with werewolves."

Derek stands, wavering between the table and the door. 

"You don't have to! I just..." Stiles shrugs. "I don't know how long I'll be gone, there's not much to do in here." He smiles. "And Lydia'll be there. Maybe she'll be feeling generous and will agree to let us into the black box sooner rather than later."

Stiles doesn't sound too hopeful, but he also has a point. There's no good reason for Derek to sit around all day while Stiles is out doing something useful. Stiles nods at him as he heads for the door, shouldering his bag of medical supplies. Derek notices it's heavier than it was the day before, but Stiles cuts him off quickly with a: "Don't you even think about helping," before he can offer. 

The trek to the guardhouse isn't far, and they don't encounter many people on the way. Stiles leads him to a ladder at the corner of the wall, close to the entrance, leading the way. Up above, there's a squat shelter with windows overlooking the outside as well as in the 'stead. There's smoke trickling from a thin chimney, enough for a small fire. Derek still sniffs the air nervously, expecting mountain ash or some other magical element, even though he knows by now there is nothing here that is dangerous for him. 

Stiles reaches the top quickly, and leans over the edge, offering Derek his hand. Derek takes it, this time trying to return the offered smile. 

"You all right? Kind of look like you swallowed something rancid."

Derek just shakes his head.

"I'm fine."

Stiles nods, reaching for the door. Just as he places his palm on the handle, a growl erupts from inside. Paling, Stiles jerks the door open, darting inside. Derek follows, animal senses on high alert. Guards and patients alike are scattered around the room. Their injuries are minor, but none of them are in good enough shape to fight. There are tables overturned, and a kettle full of hot water is leaking all over the floor. He looks for Stiles first, headed into the heart of the chaos. There's a werewolf, claws bared, eyes red, his breath a predatory rumble coming deep within his chest. Something has ignited the wolf inside this man, and it's ready to consume everyone in the guardhouse. _Shaken_ , that's the world Stiles had used. This is more than that. This is a wolf that's lost its' humanity. Derek can _smell_ it. 

It's a familiar scent. 

Stiles is standing right in front of him, the last barrier between this mad wolf and the rest of the world. Stiles is fiddling with something in his hands. 

The wolf roars. 

Derek tackles him just as he's about to pounce on Stiles. They fall, landing heavily on the floor, Derek struggling to remain on top. The beast underneath him roars, and he answers, baring his teeth, feeling his eyes glowing blue. 

"Derek!"

The wolf thrashes underneath him, fur and frantic movements obscuring his face. He smells foul with rage. Derek tries to hold him down, but the wolf is stronger than he's expecting, and Derek is thrown across the room. He lands with a crash, wooden support beams splintering with the impact. 

Stiles gets in between him and the wolf before Derek can recover. He growls, struggling to stand as the other wolf arches to strike. 

Stiles isn't tense, and he doesn't look afraid. 

Derek is sure he's going to die. 

Just as the wolf is about to claw through Stiles' abdomen, Stiles throws a handful of bluish powder. It lands on the wolf's head and shoulders, and immediately, it freezes, crumbling to the floor with a painful-sounding clatter. Derek limps over to Stiles, still wary of the danger presented by the panting beast. 

Stiles glances back at him. 

"Special breed of wolfsbane. Works like a sedative. It won't hurt him, or take away any of his strength, just keep him from going berserk until he can find his anchor again."

Derek nods, not really absorbing the words. The powder doesn't smell like any wolfsbane he's ever encountered, but it also sounds a lot less malevolent than the wolfsbane he's been on the receiving end of. 

"Derek?" He feels Stiles reaching for him, aborting the movement before they actually touch. "Derek, are you okay?"

He's still staring at the body on the floor. Now that his face isn't frozen in a rictus of rage, his features look familiar. The smell is all wrong, distorted by time and distance and something he can't identify. Derek shakes his head, watching the fur receding, confirming the resemblance. 

Peter Hale is lying on the floor. 

"Derek?"

He feels anger coiling in his belly. If uncle… if _Peter Hale_ is alive, why isn't Laura? Why isn't he covered in burns, why is he even _conscious_? Derek closes his eyes, trying to block out the light, the sounds. Laura was here. She came to California because she wanted to find out about the fire. Because she wanted the answers that Derek wasn't giving her. She would have visited Peter. And the only way for Peter to be here now, to be an _Alpha_ , to have the strength to heal after the fire…

Derek growls, doesn't even realize what he's done until he opens his eyes, his claws wrapped around Peter's throat.

"What did you do to her?!"

Peter's eyes roll as he gasps for breath. Derek can feel Stiles at his shoulder, pulling him back, but he can barely understand what he's saying. 

"Derek, the powder, you're going to knock yourself out, let go!"

He bares his teeth, a low rumble in his chest. Peter leers at him. 

“Hello, nephew. Here to finish the job?”

Derek snarls.

“What did you do to Laura?!”

Peter struggles against the wolfsbane, but he can’t muster more than a grimace.

"I did what I had to."

Derek can feel his limbs loosening, his heart rate slowing down. The fury isn't gone, it's just receding below the surface. He lets go of Peter, letting Stiles pull him back before the wolfsbane can do anything else. He watches as Peter closes his eyes, listens to his heart rate slowing. 

Stiles is watching him carefully. He's let go, but Derek can tell he's prepared to take him down if he attacks again.

"Derek?"

He shakes his head, wiping away traces of the wolfsbane from his hands.

"He killed Laura."

Stiles gulps, glancing at Peter.

"Are you sure?"

Derek nods.

"He admitted it."

"Right. But you knew. I saw you figuring it out."

Derek looks at him. Stiles isn't afraid, isn't wary like he should be. He's just seen one werewolf go feral and another one come close to it, and he's not shaking, even though his human instincts should be telling him to run. Stiles merely grits his teeth, waiting for Derek to explain. 

"He's my uncle." He swallows. "He should be dead."


	15. Patchwork Quilts

Derek refuses to let Stiles look at him until he's attended to the other werewolves the scouting team brought in. They're malnourished, and tired, and Stiles can see scars on them that won't heal. He catalogues as he cleans injuries, piecing together what happened from marks on skin and damaged clothing. 

One of the guys growls when Stiles kneels beside the only girl. She smiles faintly, taking the guy's hand.

"It's okay Boyd. I think I remember him."

Stiles grins, hoping it doesn't look forced.

"Me? I'm flattered."

She looks at him through matted curls; after a long bath, she might be blonde. As it is, it's hard to tell. 

"You're the Sheriff's kid. You had a funny name."

"Still do." He offers his hand. "I go by Stiles. I'm a doctor now." He neglects to tell her that he's only kind of a doctor, that their best either died or went with Melissa McCall ages ago, looking for Jackson and the source of the pseudo-apocalypse. He doesn't tell her that the Sheriff is dead, because she looks sad enough. 

She takes his hand, even as the other guy, Boyd, wraps an arm protectively around her shoulders. 

"Erica. We used to be from Beacon Hills."

Stiles glances at them. He thinks they might look familiar, but his memory is full of medicine and survival skills now, he'd need a yearbook to really remember these people. And it's not like he has one handy. 

"I heard you guys were pretty far east. How'd you end up so far from town?"

Erica bites her lips, but Boyd is giving him a calculated look.

"Why do you want to know?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Doesn't matter. I just patch people up. You wanna show me the worst of it?" Erica looks to Boyd, who rolls up his shirt, revealing jagged lines criss-crossing around his torso. Stiles doesn't grimace, just examines the lacerations and tries to keep his heartbeat steady. 

"They used weapons that were laced with something. I didn't recognize it."

Stiles nods.

"It's not what the weapons were laced with. Well, that didn't help, but that's not all of it. It's what they had you drinking." Stiles looks at both of them. "You ever heard of goji?"

Boyd shakes his head, but Erica's thinking.

"It's a fruit, right?"

Stiles nods.

"Also called wolf berries. They're harmless to humans, but if you brew a tea from the leaves, they decrease your natural ability to heal. These are mild chemical burns. Probably wouldn't have fazed you if you were at full capacity." Stiles rises, his knees popping. 

"It looks like everyone's got something similar. I'll cook something up to help you flush the toxins out of your system. After that, most of those will heal on their own."

Erica smiles weakly at him. Boyd doesn't smile, but he squeezes Erica's shoulder, looking up at Stiles.

"Thank you."

Stiles just shrugs, glancing around for Lydia. He doesn't see her anywhere, but he catches a glimpse of Derek. He's still glaring at his comatose… uncle? Stiles doesn't think he was injured in their fight, but Derek doesn't look like he's doing well. Actually, he looks like he's seen a ghost. Which, Stiles considers, he sort of has. 

Stiles is about to ask him about it when Scott claps him on the shoulder, grinning like the day hasn’t completely gone to shit in the last half hour. 

“Hey buddy.”

Stiles grasps Scott’s hand for a second, squeezing it gently. 

“Scott. You didn’t tell me you were on duty this week.”

“You didn’t tell me you made a friend.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. He’d hoped nobody would be able to smell the evidence on his body, especially with all the commotion, but he’s never been that lucky. Of course Scott knows about Derek.

“That a. Erm. That’s a recent development.”

Scott winks at him.

“Good news?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Stop trying to get me to settle down, man. I’m not like you guys.”

He feels Scott stiffen a little, but before Stiles can ask about it, Scott’s already shaking it off.

“Is he okay?”

Stiles sighs. Scott’s become more adept at avoiding subjects he doesn’t want to discuss. He’ll talk about it eventually, but there’s too many people around for Stiles to pursue it now.

“Is anyone ever okay anymore?”

Scott doesn’t laugh. He’s never taken to gallows humor, despite everything. He smiles sadly, glancing at Derek.

“Whatever’s up. Let me know if I can help. I’ve got to get back to work.”

Stiles nods.

“Thanks bro. I’ll track you down later?”

Scott waves affirmatively. Stiles steps around the wreckage of the room, standing over Derek. Derek doesn't move right away, still staring at Peter. Finally, Stiles coughs.

"Hey."

Derek nods in his direction.

"He was going to kill you."

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, big guy. But even if he _was_ going to kill me, which, again, thanks, I totally had that, but whatever. That's not why you wolfed out and attacked."

Derek shrugs.

"It's not the only reason."

Stiles sighs.

"You think he killed Laura?"

"Before… before. Peter was sick. He could barely stand. He never spoke. I know that when Laura came out here, she was looking for answers. He could have taken the opportunity to kill her, become an Alpha. That would have given him the strength to heal."

Stiles nods.

"You think he had something to do with what happened?"

Derek shakes his head.

"He couldn't have. Peter wasn't strong. He would have needed to take Laura by surprise to kill her. He didn't have the power to do all of this."

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.

"And you're sure that's what happened? You don't want to ask him about it?"

"He wouldn't have survived, after. It had to have been before." Derek scowls, clenching his fists. "It was probably right after she called me."

"Well. He'll be awake soon. It can't hurt to double-check."

Stiles glances at Peter. He doesn't look like much; all the werewolves are haggard and wan. But he looks better than the others, stronger, even through a thick layer of grime. His clothing is torn, but it's not just from abuse. The sleeves are stretched where his biceps would have swollen in the Alpha form. Stiles can hear Derek growling beside him as Peter opens his eyes. He puts his hand out in warning, hoping Derek will take the hint and hang back. 

Stile squats beside Peter, waiting until his eyes are focused before he starts talking.

"Are you gonna try to tear his place apart again?"

Peter slowly shakes his head.

"Do you know where we are?"

Peter nods.

"Village, outside Beacon Hills. The guys that got us out told me." He blinks a few times. "Did you roofie me? What was that?"

"Mild sedative." Stiles rolls his eyes. "You're not my type."

Peter glances over Stiles' shoulder.

"No. I can see that."

Stiles glares as Derek begins to growl.

"Stop that. Both of you." He turns to Peter again. "We're looking for something that Laura left here. Do you have any idea where it is?"

Peter snickers.

"I've been held captive for months. Before that I was in the midwest. If she left something valuable, it's long gone."

"Leave it, Stiles. He's not going to tell you anything."

Stiles glares at Derek over his shoulder, but Peter interrupts before he can say anything scathing. 

"Derek. Don't tell me you're angry with me?"

Derek glowers. 

"You murdered the only person that knew how to fix everything. She was your _family_." He shakes his head, teeth still bared. "You're sick."

"Me?" Beside him, Peter is sitting up. Stiles steps back, not sure whether he should offer help or run for cover. But Peter's glaring at Derek, inattentive to everything else.

"How did the hunters know about the lunar eclipse? How did they know we'd all be there? You think I wouldn't find out? I spent years chasing the last of them down. Do you want to know what Kate told me before I slit her throat?"

Derek stares resolutely at the floor.

"No."

"What's _sick_ is your fascination with humans, Derek. This one smells sweet, but I wonder if he's got a dark side?"

"Stop it," Derek snarls. "Stiles, get away from him."

"Don't worry Derek, I don't bite." He looks at Stiles. "Unless you ask for it."

Stiles rolls his eyes

"I could knock you out again. That's definitely an option."

Peter smirks.

"Look Derek, he's not even scared. You sure know how to pick 'em. What's this one going to do to us? Fatten us up for our meat?"

Stile stands.

"That's enough. If you don't want to stay, I'll gladly show you the door. No one's stopping you. Derek and I need to talk to Lydia."

With that he gestures to Derek, who is still engaging in a glare-off with his uncle.

"You coming?"

Derek doesn't move. Stiles groans.

"I was under the impression you wanted to save the world or something. So are we gonna ask Lydia really nicely if we can look at her maps, or are you gonna keep snarling at your creepy uncle?"

Derek grunts, but he follows Stiles as he leaves. Stiles catches the final sneer Peter throws their way as they walk outside. The door closes behind them before Derek sees. 

"So, I take it there's some bad blood there?"

Derek stares resolutely ahead.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Stiles snorts.

"Yeah. Tell me something I don't know. Do you think it's important though?"

Derek glances at Stiles.

"Why?"

"Well. It's kind of weird that Laura was the only person who knew what was going on. She knew how to fix it, which means she probably knew what broke it."

Derek is shaking his head.

"That has nothing to do with… this."

Stiles considers him. Derek looks drained, pale and weary. Stiles knows he should push, because there _has_ to be something else going on here, some little detail that will explain everything, or at least point them in the right direction. He chews his lip, trying to figure out what to say.

"Okay. Fine. I shouldn't ask… I shouldn't be pushing when it's none of my business. Just… if you think of anything, if you think it might help. I promise I won't… I don't know, freak out or tell the whole world or hate you over whatever it is you're not saying right now."

Derek doesn't say anything for a full minute. Finally, he sighs, still not looking at Stiles.

"Lydia's nearby. The sooner we find this safety deposit box, the better."

Groaning internally, Stiles follows him. 


	16. Horses in a Glass Menagerie

The road is bumpy. Stiles was right to insist they wait for first light, though sleeping in the same building, but not _together_ was more than a little awkward. 

Stiles keeps his eyes on the road as he drives, the tentative dawn sunlight illuminating the decrepit remains of Beacon Hills. Derek grimaces, knowing that he's somehow caused this… whatever. 

It's not that Stiles is angry. He's still generous, and considerate, offering breakfast even though Derek's stomach has been doing somersaults since he saw Peter yesterday. Stiles has been painfully polite, giving Derek space and making it clear he's not pushing for anything. 

Derek doesn't know why, but all that niceness is putting him on edge. 

He fiddles aimlessly with the handle of Laura's purse as they drive past what Derek things might have been the high school once upon a time. He knows he attended classes years ago, but the crumbling brick looks like nothing he remembers. Granted, there are black holes in his memory which render his impression shaky at best, but he's sure no one would send their kids to school that looks like this. There are trees growing through the ceiling, branches pushing through the long-shattered windows, and he can't remember if trees always grew so fast, or if this is just another side effect of the world going to shit. The entire thing looks like it's ready to fall, the brick and stone and metal frames teetering and lopsided. Derek thinks all it would take for it to collapse is a strong breeze. 

He glances at Stiles again. Stiles, who is still steadfastly ignoring him, in the kindest way possible. 

"Stop that." Derek grunts, before he realizes he was thinking it. Stiles winces, looking over at him before he refocuses on the road.

"Um, okay. What am I doing?"

Derek shakes his head.

"Never mind. Forget it."

"No, what-"

"I told you I'm not fragile."

Stiles gulps.

"I never said-"

"You've been pussyfooting around me since yesterday. You're… god damn, I said forget it, so just forget-"

Stiles jerkily pulls the car over, turning off the engine. He turns in his seat, and Derek can't look at him anymore. He bites his lip, waiting for whatever horrible thing he knows is coming. But Stiles only sighs, and Derek can see him scratching his neck out of the corner of his eye. 

"You weren't talking. You were mad, and still kinda wolfed-out. I know I should have asked what you wanted but I… it looked like you needed space? Honestly I thought you might wanna put this off except… figuring out what happened is really important. And it's obviously important _to_ you. But, I still wanted to give you space, which is why we are in one of the worst danger zones the post-apocalypse has to offer without any kind of guard."

Derek winces. He'd forgotten about that. He has no idea how Stiles convinced Lydia to let them go on their own. 

"Do you want to turn back?"

Derek realizes that he's been quiet for too long, that his silence might be interpreted as anger. 

"No."

Stiles nods, turning the key in the ignition. The ambulance stutters back to life. Derek crosses his arms, feeling frustrated with himself. This should be _easy_. Stiles is being friendly, he's doing everything right, and for some reason Derek still feels unsettled and anxious. Like he's expecting Stiles to attack him, to prove that the sense of security that has been building in the back of Derek's mind was all just a ruse. Derek wants to trust his senses, believe in Stiles' heartbeat and scent, but his skin has been crawling ever since Peter told him that Kate is dead. 

He's not as happy about it as he thought he would be. 

The car stops abruptly, and Stiles curses beside him.

"Ok?"

"The engine's fussing. Shit. Will you come out and keep watch while I try to fix it?"

Derek shrugs, which Stiles correctly interprets to be acquiescence, and they both get out. The air is stagnant, heavy with the smell of foul water and dust. The old Beacon Hills looks familiar to Derek, in that it looks like almost every other place he's visited on his trip out west. Dry and barren patches of earth cross-sectioned by seemingly random reservoirs hospitable only to colossal trees and vegetation that is, in his experience, either poisonous, or miserably bland. He'd been living in New York for long enough that he'd begun to dream about the absence of exhaust fumes and smog, but with it has come what feels like an absence of humanity. The smells of human liveliness seem to have washed away with the floods and the dust storms, replaced in their wake by the supernatural edge of decay that's crept across the earth. 

Behind him, Stiles bends over the engine, muttering under his breath, grunting with the exertion of repairing whatever's broken. Derek sighs, looking closely at the terrain, listening for footsteps, heartbeats, breaths. There's nothing. Beacon Hills is a ghost town.

They're standing outside of what looks like a restaurant, but the windows are all shattered and there's a fine layer of dirt and debris covering everything, so it's hard to tell. The only clue is what remains of a sign hanging lopsided above what used to be the entrance: 'Petrone's Pizzaria'. Derek vaguely remembers what pizza tasted like. 

Watching Stiles out of the corner of his eye, Derek examines the remains of the building. Peeling, discolored paint has exposed the plaster and concrete walls. The floor is lined with glass and wood. Derek steps inside carefully, grimacing as he audibly dislodges some of the wreckage, unearthing an upended table. 

"Derek?"

Stiles is closer than he was when Derek left. He curses his own inattentiveness as he turns slowly. Stiles is surveying him in the context of the wreckage.

"This place used to be good. I think I came here a lot, because I remember it so clearly."

Derek just shrugs, not knowing what to say to that.

"The engine's up and running again. We should probably keep moving, before the uglies realize we're here."

Derek inhales a smirk as he follows Stiles back into the van.

"Uglies?"

"You know. The big bad beasties. Harpies and golems and feral griffons. Stuff that I don't _really_ want to interact with today. Or ever. Because it always ends up ugly. Usually for me."

Derek nods.

"Uglies. Got it."

Stiles begins to drive again, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

"We're not far."

Derek nods, crossing his arms.

"Any idea what we'll find when we get there?"

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.

"If we're lucky, an abandoned bank, with minimal debris to dig through."

"And if we're unlucky?"

Stiles cocks his head.

"It's been nice knowing you?"

Derek tries not to smirk, but he can feel himself failing. Instead, he watches Stiles, staring like he can see his heart beating a rhythm in the blood flowing through his veins. He can't. But he can hear it, and he can see Stiles' throat moving just slightly as he breathes, and that's close enough.

He's also pretty sure what he's doing qualifies as creepy.

"Derek?"

"I'm okay."

"Just… right now? Or in general."

Both. Neither. He shrugs instead of answering. He hates that Stiles has been making an effort all day. And that he himself has been too busy brooding to even notice. 

"I want to tell you what happened. I'm not angry. I just want you to understand."

Stiles nods.

"Okay. Is this a conversation we can have while driving, or should I pull over again so I can look you in the eye and all of that 'show-you-I-care' feelings stuff?"

Derek grimaces.

"Don't pull over."

Stiles smirks.

"Not interested in the feelings stuff?"

"Never." He groans, staring out the window. It all just looks gray to him. "Peter was my uncle. I don't know what he did to survive, but he smells wrong."

"Wrong how?"

Derek closes his eyes, trying to remember.

"Nothing like how he used to smell. Not just the regular things, his cologne, his toothpaste. Underneath all that, that's the smell that we notice. It's like his sweat is different, belongs to someone else entirely. It smells like death. Like he doesn't fit. Like he's a car in a forest, or a tree in a city. Outside, somehow." He sighs.

"That was oddly poetic."

"You try describing how something smells."

Stiles considers this, before a bump in the road jolts him back into the conversation.

"Okay, fine. Weird smells. Anything else?"

Derek nods.

"Like ashes, old ashes. Sour water. Rotting wood. And," he swallows, "like hunters. Like hunters I thought were long gone."

Stiles takes in a big gulp or air, letting it out slowly.

"And, all that stuff he said? Not that I'm prying, because that seemed really personal, but it set you off, more than all that other stuff."

Derek shrugs. Stiles parks, watching Derek warily.

"We're here."

Neither of them moves. Finally, Derek groans, running his fingers through his hair. 

"He can't be trusted. That's what I want you to understand. He's here, out of nowhere, and he looks like he's been through the wringer, but he's hiding something. And he's dangerous."

Stiles wiggles his brow.

"You kind of just described you."

"You probably shouldn't trust me either."

Stiles leans back into his seat.

"Well. I do. Despite your advice. And, not that I doubt your instincts or anything, but there's obviously some bad blood between you, how can you be sure it's not just a grudge that's setting you off?"

Derek gulps. "It's more than a feeling. It's like… when you're underwater, and you're drowning. You know you shouldn't take a breath, because the water will kill you. You know it, even as your body is fighting you. Peter isn't safe, and I know it, even if my senses aren't giving me anything tangible to work with. Everything else, the things he was saying… it's a long story."

Stiles places a hand on the cushions between them.

"I've got time."

Derek grimaces.

"Later. We should check the vault and get out. Before sundown."

Stiles nods, but his gaze is shuttered, and Derek's chest feels tight, and he doesn't know what's broken, and he doesn't know if he can fix it, and he wasn't used to feeling comfortable but it did feel _nice_ , to be almost comfortable with Stiles. And it's not that Stiles is afraid of him. Stiles is resolutely _not_ afraid, even though he should be. What Stiles really is, when Derek considers it, is _nice_. He's kind and attractive and patient and skilled. He's a survivor. He's not going to die just when Derek starts to depend on having him around. He's not a weak little flame, flickering in the darkness. Even if he doesn't burn brightly, his strength is a spark, small but unshakeable. 

And Derek knows Stiles deserves something better than a battered and shell-shocked old werewolf.

Stiles deserves the world. Not this world. The world as it should be.

So he steps out of the ambulance and closes the door firmly behind him, not looking back. He can hear Stiles' feathery footfalls behind him, but he stares straight ahead, and takes a step towards the bank. 

 


	17. Boxer and Clover

Stiles is wary as they step across the wreckage of what might have been a parking lot. The concrete is cracked, with fault lines like craters tearing up their path. This street wasn't destroyed by anything natural, that's already clear. Sure, the fires and earthquakes did some damage, but the real culprit was probably a giant snake, or a chimera, or one of the herds of poisonous spiders that passed through a few years ago. 

He's not armed, not by the usual standards anyway. He has an enchanted club, a pouch full of wolfsbane, and a knife laced with belladonna. He (hopes) that any enemy that they encounter will think he looks so completely suicidal as to be non-threatening. Because that's essentially right. One werewolf and one rawboned human aren't much of anything. _Hopefully we look too scrawny to be worth eating_ , he thinks, grimacing. 

Ahead of him, Derek is tense. He cocks his head, eyes frantic.

"Derek?"

"There are other scents. Recent. Werewolf."

Stiles grits his teeth.

"How many distinct ones can you pick up?"

Derek's brow furrow as he concentrates.

"Four maybe. It's a pack. It's hard to tell." He grimaces. "They smell bitter."

Stiles steps a little closer to Derek.

"What does 'bitter' mean?"

Derek swallows, like he's trying to get rid of a bad taste the scent left in his mouth.

"Unhealthy. Like a tree that's growing sour, reaching upwards without roots to support it."

"Ok. And what's that mean for us?"

Derek glances at him sideways.

"It means there might be four or more pissed-off werewolves waiting for us inside."

Stiles shrugs, displaying a bravado he doesn't really feel.

"Great. We can work with that."

Together, they step through the crumbling doorway and it takes his eyes a while to adjust to the sudden darkness. Stiles has no idea what this place must smell like to a werewolf, but the stench is so overwhelming to his human senses, he can't imagine anyone with stronger olfactory capabilities would be comfortable here. The mold and decay have clearly taken over, and everything reeks of festering rot. Water must have found its way inside, maybe a sewer line underneath the building burst, but whatever the explanation, it's nasty.

"Ugh. This can't be up to health code."

Derek doesn't snicker, but his shoulders jerk in a way Stiles has come to recognize is Derek's equivalent to laughter when they're in imminent danger, which is most of the time. It's fine, at least Derek is kind-of sort-of laughing. The ride over had been worse than awkward, and Stiles still isn't sure why exactly Derek is tetchy. Giving him space didn't seem to make it better, and Derek doesn't seem like he wants to talk it all out (since he resolutely vetoed feelings).

"Where are the vaults?"

Stiles winces.

"Probably further inside. Away from the light and oxygen."

"You could wait outside."

"While you walk into what must be the doors to hell? No. My masculinity really can't take that hit." And, he'd promised Lydia that they would, under no circumstances, separate. It had been hard enough to convince her that they should go alone. He knows that if he dies on this mission, she'll never forgive him. Knowing Lydia, she'd probably end up haunting _him_.

Derek leads the way through the cavernous remains of the bank. When they reach the vault, the door is already open, torn from the wall by something super human. Stiles shudders as they step inside, fumbling with the keys.

"Can you see anything? Because I can't."

Derek scans the walls, placing his fingers on one of the private boxes.

"This is the number."

Stiles fiddles with the key, removing it from the chain. Just as he's got it, there's a loud screeching noise, and he looks up to see Derek's torn the deposit box door from the wall. He watches as Derek drops the mangled piece of metal on the floor, stifling a nervous giggle.

"Careful. That's probably a felony or something."

Derek's already digging inside the box. He pulls out a long, rectangular drawer, and it rattles as he moves it. 

"Anything useful?"

Derek's looking at the contents, his face unreadable (in part because he's Derek, and persistently stoic, and in part because Stiles isn't magical and can't see a goddamned thing).

"Define useful."

"You know. Spell book. Pixie dust. Magic wand. Grocery list for antidotes to the apocalypse. I'll take whatever I can get here, I'm not picky."

Derek is probably rolling his eyes, Stiles can hear it in his tone.

"There's a lot of stuff. We should go over it outside."

That sounds all right to Stiles.

By contrast, the growling by the entrance to the vault sounds terrible.

Before he can blink, startled by the twin sets of red glowing eyes, Stiles is pushed aside behind Derek, growling and ready to lash out at their assailants. Grimacing, Stiles reaches for the club strapped to his back. It won't do much against not one, but two Alphas, especially since he is neither supernaturally fast nor impossibly strong, but he's determined to put up a fight. He's definitely not letting Derek do all the murderous dirty work. And, not for nothing, the club _is_ enchanted.

Lydia didn't really explain the enchantments in the kind of English Stiles understands, but he's hoping that won't matter.

"Stay back." Derek's voice is harsh and guttural; his teeth must be out.

A voice from across the room snickers.

"Or what?"

"There's only one way out."

"And it's through us."

Derek's voice rumbles just as Stiles is temporarily blinded by heinously bright light. He covers his eyes, wincing; it's worse than staring directly into the sun at afternoon in August. He doesn't realize he's stumbled backwards until he feels his back hit the wall. In front of him, Derek is staggering, unable to recover as quickly, his eyes more sensitive and already adjusted to the dearth of light present just seconds ago.

Stiles blinks away the dark splotches at the edges of his vision. Behind the light, he can see four figures now instead of two, and all of them have glowing red eyes.

Four Alphas. What had Derek said earlier? They smelled bitter. Stiles hadn't really wanted to find out first-hand what bitter werewolves are like. Apparently, today is just not his day. 

_Fuck_.

"Who are you working for?" A female voice croons menacingly. 

Stiles ignors Derek's arm as it flares out protectively against his chest.

"Nobody. We're not part of one of the 'gangs or anything. We're not hunters. We're not brigands, or witches, we're not really anything."

He's met with silence. Stiles takes one step forward before Derek snaps his fangs in warning. The woman across from them laughs.

"There's not much you can do in there. The Hecatolite's weakened you. You'd be better off letting your human protect you."

Hecatolite. Moonstone. Nothing dangerous for humans, but bad news for werewolves. Stiles wracks his brain for anything useful, since right now all he knows for sure is that they've walked directly into a trap and he's pretty sure they might be totally screwed. Right at the beginning, Lydia had been stringent about saving resources, making hard copies of books and other materials before the power went out to ensure that they had access to as much information as possible. He'd helped her catalogue everything she'd frantically printed during those last hectic days before the end of modern technology as they knew it. Some people, too many people, had thought it was silly. Enough assumed that the power would turn back on, that the generators would just keep running. That despite the natural disasters and supernatural catastrophes, machines would still work without human intervention. That the internet would be just fine without them. Stiles hadn't been one of them. He believed in Lydia. He was ready when the lights went out. 

He regrets not having read more. 

Stiles gulps, and decides to work with what he does have, and stop dreaming, while he's at it. 

He can see now, just a bit. There's only one woman among them. Two of them are twins. One of them looks like he might be half-giant. They are Alphas, yes, but gaunt, too. Their hair and clothes are dirty and threadbare, and it's hard to tell from far away, but they are covered with dark stains that look awfully like blood. And a few of them are still wearing chains around their wrists and ankles. 

"Look," he steps around Derek, laying his hand gently on Derek's shoulder before continuing. "We're not reporting to anyone. We weren't sent here to find you. We were actually hoping really hard we wouldn't find anyone. We just came here to get something. And we've got it now. We'll be on our way and forget we ever saw you."

One of the twins scoffs.

"Sure. 'Forget', until it becomes favorable for you to tell the Leanwulf exactly where we are."

Derek barks angrily, and the muscles underneath Stiles' fingers tense acutely. 

"We're not _his_."

The woman steps forward, blocking the light just enough for them to see clearly, and Stiles notices that her feet are bare, and crowned with claws that match the ones on her hands. She crosses her arms, surveying them warily.

"But you know him?"

Stiles glances at Derek. He's still crouched and defensive, but he's looking at the woman with human eyes.

"Not by choice."

She nods.

"He got your family?"

Derek shakes his head minutely.

"All dead."

Stiles knows this isn't quite true, but the tension in the room seems to have dialed down a little, so he doesn't mention it. 

"You said you're not _his_. Does that mean-"

"I got away."

She scowls.

"Nobody 'gets away' from Deucalion."

Stiles cocks his head, wiggling his eyebrows at the battered shackle on her wrist.

"Looks like you did."

She snarls at him.

"We were _pack_. It was different, for us."

Derek nods solemnly.

"You were important."

She glowers.

"Only important enough to keep intact. We still had to tear the place down just to get out. And we needed a sorceress to help us."

Stiles feels his stomach lurch; the last sorceress he encountered made the trees walk and strangled a few of their sentries before she was finally caught. She didn't even want anything, not food or shelter or even revenge. She was just pissed off and wanted to make everyone else as miserable as she was. 

He's constantly surrounded by fucking trees; arbor was not something he needed to have nightmares about. 

Derek, meanwhile, has straightened. The woman holds out her hand; he takes is cautiously, and they shake.

"Derek."

"Kali."

Derek nods politely.

"A dangerous name."

She smirks.

"I prefer to think of it as impious." she glances back at her companions. "What do you think? Do we trust them?"

The larger one shrugs.

"Their hearts aren't lying."

The twins are still glaring.

"There are ways to lie," one of them mutters.

"Without missing a beat," the other chimes in. 

Kali shrugs.

"There's another way to know for sure." She lifts her claws, dragging one across her neck. "You can't fake memories. Yet."

Derek stiffens, and Stiles immediately steps in front of him.

"No. It's dangerous. And not necessary."

He's met with deep growls coming from all directions, but Derek is the one who speaks up first.

"Do it."

Stiles glances at him, checking to make sure he didn't misread the situation. He's only seen the werewolf memory trick once firsthand, and not only did it sound invasive, from what Scott reported it hurt like a motherfucker. 

"But, Derek, you don't-"

Derek's looking at Kali.

"You'll let us leave after?"

She nods.

"As long as I don't see something I don't like."

Derek bares his teeth.

"There'll be plenty in there you won't _like_."

"Fine." She concedes. "As long I don't see you getting too cosy with Deucalion. I don't really give a shit about anything else I find." She cracks her wrist. "Now or never."

Derek turns around, so only Stiles can see his face. He looks calm, not passive, not afraid, not angry or defeated. Stiles realizes, as Kali prepares to strike, he doesn't look like he feels anything. Kali's claws dig into the back of Derek's neck, and he doesn't scream, or growl, or make any noise at all. He clenches his teeth, and closes his eyes, and Stiles wants to reach for him, hold his hand, do something, but he's not sure if he's allowed, if it wouldn't just make this worse. So he stays still, trying to watch without staring, trying to be supportive without hovering, without even breathing. 

It's over quickly. Kali pulls away, shaking her wrist. Blood splatters all over the floor. She doesn't seem to care.

Behind her, the twins are agitated.

"Well?"

Derek slumps forward, but he catches himself on the wall. Kali shrugs.

"He's not one of Deucalion's friends, that's for sure. Looks like he was just a workhorse. He's lucky he's not dead." She steps back behind the light. "If anything, he' should probably be more worried about Deucalion finding _him_. What was it he always said about the horses?" The claws on her toes click against the floor with what sounds like finality. "Work is cheap."

Stiles glares across the room at them.

"So you're satisfied? We can go?"

She nods.

"We didn't see you. You didn't see us. Don't come back."

Stiles releases the breath he hadn't realizes he was holding. He can feel the adrenaline, unspent, burning through all of his muscles. Beside him, Derek is gasping evenly, a light sweat coating his skin.

The light behind him goes out, and the Alphas leave them alone in the darkness. 


	18. The fire beneath my feet is burning bright

Derek dozes beside Stiles as soon as they've passed the town border. Stiles is twitchy and agitated. Derek feels that way, too, but it's buried underneath a thick layer of exhaustion. It's been a while since someone sorted through his memories, and they keep floating to the surface, unpredictable and heavy. There's the time Laura baked cupcakes and burned them all when she left them in the oven for too long; there's the trek through the Appalachian Mountains over a year ago. He can hear Kate's laughter and New York subways and shackles and his mother cooing to him in infancy all at the same time. The smell of burnt sugar and sweet moss war with one another as the sense memories overwhelm him. He feels too detached to really feel any of it.

Stiles keeps checking on him when he thinks Derek isn't paying attention. It takes Derek a while to muster the will to deal with it. 

"I'm fine Stiles."

Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek.

"You didn't have to do that."

Derek shrugs.

"We're out. We're alive."

The car lurches over a bump in the road.

"Sure. But you didn't have to… there were other.” He splutters. “They could have searched _my_ memories, for one."

"It wouldn't have worked. You didn't have what they needed."

Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

"We could have-"

"It's done Stiles. I don't feel violated, or whatever you're thinking. I feel jet-lagged. You want to get to the point and ask me what you really want to know?"

Stiles watches the road, but Derek knows he's really the one being watched.

"I just want to make sure you're okay."

"You _want_ to know what she was talking about."

Stiles bristles.

"I've heard about the Leanwulf before-"

"But not from me. You want to hear about me."

Stiles groans heavily.

"I want to hear what you want to tell me. Anything, nothing. I can handle it. If you want to talk about it… then go ahead. Just don't do it for the sake of my curiosity. It killed the cat, and probably shot the whole world to hell, too."

Derek licks his lips.

"Most of us can't transform all the way."

He can tell the non sequitur takes Stiles by surprise. 

"Sure. I thought it was only Alphas, and really powerful ones at that."

Derek nods.

"A full shift can be brought on by stress, or danger. It's the body's way of coping. It's not the kind of thing most sane people experiment with."

Stiles tenses, but he doesn't budge, and he doesn't interrupt. Derek sighs. 

"After… everything. The Leanwulf started hunting. He'd find packs and kill all the weaker members, strong-arming the ones that survived. He's a powerful Alpha. It wasn't hard." He grits his teeth, remembering the heat of the workhouse, the stench of blood and sweat and death that permeated the walls. "Once he got his claws in you, he used you. However he could."

Stiles nods absent-mindedly.

"So, those guys we just ran into. They managed to get away from him. But they didn't believe that you could have."

Derek shrugs.

"They probably thought I was like them. He had a couple of wolves that he held in higher esteem. They were like his generals. His foremen."

Stiles looks at him, full on, just for a moment.

"You weren't?"

Derek swallows.

"I killed a hunter. Instead of killing me, the other hunters turned me in to Deucalion. They thought it would break me."

Stiles doesn't shudder.

"Why."

Derek watches the road for a minute. The air inside the car suddenly feels too dry, and he can smell fire at the edges of his perception. No, he knows that fire died a long time ago.

"Why did I kill her, or why did they think it would break me?"

"Both. Either."

Derek decides to answer the easier question.

"He's trying to build a generator. He would induce stress until it induced a full shift, and then he would put us to work." He breathes, slowly. "Most didn't survive more than a few weeks."

There's another bump in the road, this one gentler.

"How long?"

"Six months."

Stiles blinks, but otherwise shows no sign of surprise. Derek cuts him off before he can say anything.

"That's what I wanted her to see. It's fine. It's behind me."

"It's not-"

"You know what I mean."

Stiles shifts restlessly, and Derek listens to his heartbeat. It's not calm, but it is gentle. He's not afraid. He's not anxious. He's concerned. Derek doesn't really know what to do with concern. It's not a type of affection he's used to. Concern is reserved for people you care about, and Derek settles into the understanding that Stiles cares about him; it echoes in every steady beat of his heart. Stiles' heart sounds like the wind in the trees. It's comforting, Derek realizes. It doesn't sound like a burden. 

He reaches down between his feet, where Laura's safety deposit box rests on the floor.

"Do you want to find out what she left us?"

Stiles shrugs noncommittally. He's still giving him distance, still wary of Derek's discomfort. Derek resents it, in spite of, or maybe because, he knows he needs it, this tender, familiar courtesy. 

"Sure."

Derek pries open the box with his fingers, bending the old, dusty metal as if it offers no more resistance than warm butter. 

Some of the things, he recognizes. She must have inherited the box from their mother, because most of the contents are old, clearly placed there before Laura's last visit. There's a faded photo album with pictures dating back to Derek's great-grandparents, who died years before he was born. He can see his features in some of the photos, though most of them are unfamiliar distant relations, but he's surprised to see pictures of wolves in full-shift. The familial resemblance is strongest in those. The soft arch of a snout, the warm ochre of the fur on the hind legs, he sees his image in these wolves. 

Derek closes the album before Stiles can get a good look at it. He's not ready to share that, yet.

Wiping away the dust, he comes across Laura's old mp3 player, and runs his fingers over it delicately.

His heart jolts when it turns on at his touch, sound blaring from the tiny device.

Stiles nearly drives into a ditch.

"What the hell is that?!"

Derek tries to lower the volume, but the buttons are jammed.

"It's music."

He can practically hear Stiles rolling his eyes.

"No shit. How does it even still have power?"

Derek tries frantically to turn it off, but the tiny device is stubborn, and seems to insist on playing-

"Is that _One Direction_?!"

Derek snickers.

"I'm surprised you remember."

"Like I could ever forget. I'm surprised _you_ remember." Stiles glances at him sideways. "Were you a secret pop music fan or something?"

Derek snorts.

"No. That was Laura. Only it wasn't really a secret. She used to sing. In the shower. Loudly."

Stiles is smirking.

"It sounds like that was very hard for you."

"You have no idea."

"That thing's not turning off, is it?"

Derek places it in the cup holder, so at least it isn't blaring directly into his face.

"Nope."

"Think it's going to play any other songs?"

"Seems unlikely. She used to leave it on repeat."

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, but he's laughing, underneath the put-upon veneer.

"And to think, I missed radio. Clearly I was delusional."

"How long until we're back at the 'stead?"

Stiles glances at the sun, high in the center of the sky.

"Probably about an hour. You know, depending on traffic."

Derek snickers.

"We could always throw it out the window."

Stiles nods, but he doesn't reach for the mp3 player. When the song ends, they discover that it was, in fact, stuck on repeat, and they both resign themselves to listening to the same years-old song over and over again, until the battery dies or their patience does, whichever comes first. 

Still, with the music playing and the landscape becoming moderately less barren as they leave the old Beacon Hills, the ride begins to feel almost normal (or, what would once have passed for normal). Derek wonders if it could have been like this, before. Stiles driving as he leaned back in the passenger seat, a saccharine soundtrack to keep them company. Maybe. If he’d come back to Beacon Hills with Laura, or if he'd never left in the first place. He doesn't know how old Stiles is exactly, but they can't be too far apart in age. A few years apart in school, but they could have known each other. Met at college. He wonders if they would have ended up like this, driving in a car and comfortable with each other. 

"You know, the song gets better the more you hear it," Stile says, after the fourth repeat.

Derek smiles, the stretch of those particular muscles still unfamiliar to him.

"You say that now."

Stiles shrugs.

"I guess. There hasn't been a lot of music lately. I think I forgot what it's like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of head canons about Laura Hale. Derek probably called her a cradle-robber every time she bought another 1D poster, but he also kept buying poster tack for her.


	19. I have but one song: An Interlude

In the time before, Derek came into Laura’s room while she was packing. 

She has music playing. The volume is low, because their mother had threatened to throttle every member of One Direction if she had to hear another one of their songs at full blast again. Laura knows he's standing there, but she doesn't say anything at first. She keeps sorting through socks, trying to find a single matching pair, to no avail.

Derek waits until the song has played through twice before coughing discretely. 

“I didn’t tell.”

He sighs in relief, turning to go. Laura catches him before he can step back outside, and her glare is enough to pin him to the spot. She’s not the Alpha, not yet, but she’s already wearing the mantle of responsibility. He can’t help but follow her unspoken command to stay put. 

“But I think you should.” She holds up her hand, forestalling his argument. “I know. You think she’s going to forbid you from seeing her again. And I’m tempted to do the same. But Derek…” She groans, rubbing her eyes, smudging her eyeliner. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s that I- we _can’t_ trust her.” When she looks up at him again, her mouth curls into an affectionate frown. “None of us want to see you hurt.”

He swallows, nodding. 

“I know that.”

She touches his cheek, and he tries to smile for her.

“Just think about it. If you want, we can tell mom together. When I get back.”

He nods, considering the prospect. Facing their mother sounds less intimidating if he knows he’ll have Laura by his side. She pats his shoulder, turning back to her half-full bag.

“Help me fold. You’re better at Tetris-ing things than I am.”

He cringes.

“I don’t want to fold your underwear Laura.”

She giggles.

“Fold my shirts then Mr. Bashful.”

He tosses one of the aforementioned shirts at her, clambering onto the bed.

“Stop trying to cast me as one of the seven dwarfs! It’s probably offensive.” He initiates a vicious tickle fight, and Laura squirms, sending her mismatched socks tumbling onto the floor.

“Sure thing Grumpy!”

“Stahp!”

She laughs, tickling him back. The sound drowns out the chorus Derek’s heard a thousand times, and when they finally call a truce, panting, he realizes that he feels lighter. Laura gives him a fist bump when she leaves the next morning, and he resolves to have that talk with their mother when Laura comes back from her trip to London. 

Three days later, their house is nothing but ashes. 


	20. Like sweethearts do

Stiles is cautious around Derek, not sure if today has been good or bad or just too much. He feels kind of raw himself. When they park inside the preserve, he sends word to Lydia that he'll make a report later. He really wants to talk to Scott, but he's out scouting for supplies (fuel, in particular, is becoming scarce and Stiles winces as he realizes where most of it's being used). Sure, even the smallest hope that they can fix everything, hit the restart button on the end of the world, is worth fighting for. But what if they fail? What if it's just too much, too impossible to do? What if it takes years, lifetimes? What about the people that still have to keep on living?

He shakes his head. Lydia's told him before that these aren’t his problems. That he has enough to worry about. That she'll deal with all the rest. It's his job to patch everyone up, to fix broken things, and he does the best he can. 

Derek lifts the box from the car as Stiles steps down. 

"I think I'm gonna hit the sack," Derek glances at him from underneath his lashes. "If that's okay?"

"Sure. Sure. It's totally fine. Whatever you want." Stiles scratches the back of his neck. "Need anything?"

Derek shrugs.

"Not really."

Stiles nods, and leaves Derek to his cabin, trusting that he can find his way around well enough on his own. 

It's still early afternoon, and there are plenty of hours of daylight left, so he takes the opportunity to do a round of the 'stead, checking in on healing injuries, making sure old Finstock is actually _taking_ the medicine he prescribed, and not just stowing it behind the fireplace, like he was last week. Finstock has managed to catch every flu, cough, and pandemic-level virus that's passed through, and Stiles is honestly surprised that the ornery old bastard hasn't died yet. He knows Finstock is probably keeping himself alive just to continue being a pain in the ass, but Stiles is fine with that. It's the last piece of continuity left from is old life, his life _before_ , and it feels familiar in a way that nothing else does.

His last stop is Allison's house. Isaac must have heard him coming, because they've already got tea brewed for him; it's pleasantly warm, no longer scalding. Their timing, as always, is perfect.

"Afternoon Stiles."

He grins at her, leaning against the doorframe.

"Haven't burst yet?"

"Nope." She pats her swollen stomach. "This one's going to be right on time. Still got another month."

He shakes his head, taking the mug she offers him.

"I'm supposed to be the expert."

"Stiles. You are not, and never will be, an expert on childbearing." She scoffs. "It's weird enough having you as my midwife as it is."

"Can't I be a mid husband?" He snickers, taking a seat by the hearth. "Is that a thing?"

"No."

Allison sits across from him, Isaac helping her into her seat, though she swats at him playfully.

"Stop that. I'm fine. Stop hovering."

Isaac steps back, but Stiles knows he's not going very far. His posture is wary like it was when he first came to the 'stead, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stiles doesn't know all the gory details of what Isaac is afraid of, but he knows the symptoms of his fear. Gentian for the insomnia. St. John's Wort for the anxiety and nightmares. Sulphur for the lack of appetite. There's been a lot of trial and error with Isaac; just figuring out what _works_ on werewolves would be hard enough. Scraping everything together after the end of the world is just icing on the insurmountable cake. 

Stiles catches his eye over Allison's shoulder and smiles tentatively. Scott is better at this kind of thing. 

"So Stiles," Allison's grin is conspiratorial as she crosses her legs, "I hear you made a new friend."

Stiles sputters his ill-timed sip of tea town the front of his shirt. 

"Seriously! How does anyone know already?"

Allison pats his knee. "Because we're your friends and we care about you."

"And because we're both out of commission. We have nothing to do but gossip," Isaac smirks. 

Stiles crosses his arms, slouching.

"Maybe I don't want to talk about it."

"I heard your new friend is a boy."

Stiles wishes the chair would grow legs and eat him.

"Scott would never badger me like this."

Isaac rolls his eyes. "Scott always badgers you exactly like this."

"Ugh. You could at least give me something juicy in return. But no. The three of you with your baby and your domestic bliss are still the least interesting topic of conversation."

Allison hides her giggles behind another sip of tea. 

"You're only fascinating because you put up such a fuss. And you still blush like a teenager."

"It's very warm in your cabin."

They laugh and chat and Stiles, as usual, ends up staying longer than he intended. He doesn't actually get around to telling them anything about Derek, aside from his name and the more general details. He wants to. But nothing he can think of to say sounds right. So instead they talk about the weather (crazy, right? what happened to the summertime hail we had last year) and his run-in with the Golem and how he's too scrawny and needs to come visit for dinner some time (which he would do, you know, if visiting didn't make him feel like a fourth wheel, which should, obviously, _work_ , but the world ended and now fourth wheels are just excessive). He feels warm, and not because of the heat of the cabin. This feels easy. This feels normal, what he imagines normal to be. 

Sure, the parting pelvic exam is a little weird, but what's the occasional manual probe between friends? 

Okay, it's super weird.

His walk back is quiet. The sun is almost done setting, and the shadows are long. Most people are inside by the fire, or out guarding the walls. It's not a restless night. Nobody stays awake looking for danger anymore, terrified and antsy. The first few years were like that, but somewhere around the first half-decade everyone got comfortable with the lives they built after. 

He regrets not wearing another layer. His breath puffs out in front of him, barely visible in the early night. For all that the weather has been unusually even-tempered, there are still random days when it feels like winter, colder than it ever used to be, followed by sticky, damp heat. California is a different place. 

Ahead, there's light flickering in his window. Derek must have built a fire, and the thought makes him smile. 

When he finally reaches the door, he hurries inside, trying not to take the cold with him. Derek is sitting by the fire, a solemn silhouette. He nods in answer to the faint smile that Stiles offers. 

"You're back."

Stiles scratches the back of his neck with his free hand.

"Yeah. Sorry. That took longer than I thought it would. But I brought food."

"Smells good."

Stiles hoists the bag onto the table, sorting the contents. The bread will need to be wrapped, but the jar of dried vegetables can just go in the cupboard for soup later. The cookies should also go in the cupboard, but Allison won't know if he sneaks one now…

He twitches when he feels Derek's arms snake around him. 

"Hey. What's up?"

Derek rubs his nose against the back of Stiles' neck.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He feels Derek shrug behind him.

"I took a nap. I feel better." He stiffens a little, and Stiles thinks he can feel the conscious effort it takes for Derek to not pull away entirely. "Is this okay?"

Stiles nods, carefully stifling the impulse to grab Derek, to make him stay.

"Sure. It's okay. It's all okay."

Derek doesn't move for a second.

"Is that enough?"

Stiles closes his eyes.

"Yeah. I told you. I'm easy like that."

"I'm not."

Stiles smirks, knowing Derek can probably hear it in his voice, even if he can't see it.

"That's probably why we get along so well. Do whatever." He shivers when Derek slides his lips against his shoulders, nudging the fabric of his sweater aside to reveal more of the delicate skin. "Yeah. Especially if your 'whatever' includes more of that. I'm really, really into that."

Derek snickers against him.

"I like you."

Stiles catches one of Derek's exploring hands, massaging circles into his skin with the pad of his thumb.

"I like you too, big guy." He lifts Derek's hand to his lips. "You and your big fists."

Derek snorts, a hot puff of air caressing the tiny hairs on Stiles neck.

"The better to hold you with?"

Stiles laughs, leaning back against Derek's chest.

"What about your big, bad teeth?"

Derek scrapes the aforementioned teeth against the ridges of Stiles' spine.

"The better to eat you with, my dear."

Derek presses against him, until Stiles is leaning over the table, his hands spread beneath him. In response, Stiles grinds his hips against Derek, feeling a rising tide of warmth spreading through his limbs.

"And what about that?" He whispers.

Derek rubs his cheek against the sensitive skin beneath Stiles' ear, his stubble rough enough to send shivers down his chest. 

“I don’t think the wolf sodomized Little Red Riding Hood, Stiles.”

Stiles rocks back against Derek, groaning at the solidness he finds there.

“I like this version better,” he rasps, licking his lips. “There’s a happy ending for the wolf in this one.”

Derek strokes his hands up and down, tangling his fingers in Stiles’ hair, tugging his shirt down around his spine.  

“Wolves don’t usually get happy endings,” he whispers against Stiles’ now-bared shoulder. “Tell me what you want.”

Stiles catches one of Derek’s hands, dragging it suggestively across his abdomen.

“I want you to…” his breath catches as Derek’s fingers trail across his waistband. 

“What’s that, Stiles?”

“I want you to.” He gulps. “Here, please.” He shifts restlessly. “ _Soon_.”

Derek’s voice is thick, almost syrupy, as he chuckles.

“I could make you wait.”

Stiles moans as Derek shifts behind him, pushing and pulling until they’re facing each other, and it’s not fair that Derek looks good, so _good_ , while he’s writhing and disheveled and probably flushed, practically keening for it all over the table. 

“Don’t be cruel.”

Derek rubs his nose against Stiles’ cheek, his hands trailing down his thighs, lifting him, pressing him against the table until he’s sitting on it, hanging off the edge, with only Derek to keep him upright. Stiles wraps his legs around him, squeezing encouragingly. 

“Please.”

Derek presses his heat against him, raking his teeth across his chin.

“Please?”

Stiles shudders.

“Anything.”

Derek speaks against the skin of his throat, his lips barely moving.

“There’s no lube down here.”

Stiles grips the table, his fingers scraping against the wood.

“Don’t care. Keep going.” He rocks his hips, almost falling before Derek catches him. “Do _anything_.”

He can feel Derek’s smirk.

“I think I can accommodate that.” He whispers as he reaches into the front of his pants. 


	21. a little more spark

Derek listens to Stiles’ heartbeat as they move. It doesn’t stutter in fear. Stiles doesn’t cringe as he writhes, doesn’t whimper as he groans. He’s not fighting back tears when he closes his eyes in ecstasy. 

Derek kisses him, because he’s beautiful. 

His skin is hot and he smells like chicory and wood smoke and pine. 

“Here.”

Stiles helps with the tight folds of his pants, wriggling as the drawstrings come loose and the hem slips beneath his shallow hips. Underneath, his skin is flushed, deep red, and the bared skin smells richer. Derek presses his lips, open-mouthed, against Stiles’ neck, his shoulder, tearing at his shirt to expose more. Stiles rubs frantic circles into his back, nails dragging against the fabric. Derek closes his eyes for a second, just listening to Stiles breathe; each gasp, sigh, and whisper. It sounds right. It sounds safe. 

When he opens his eyes, Stiles is staring at him. 

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” An unexpected smile punctuates the word. “Yeah. I want this. Often.” He nuzzles against Stiles’ cheek. “Mostly now.”

Stiles chuckles against him, shifting his hips, and _that_ gets Derek’s attention. He tears at the fabric, and Stiles tries to lift up to make it easier, but only succeeds in falling backwards. Derek catches him, the palm of his hands heating up in between Stiles’ shoulder blades. He drags the material up, exposing more skin, watching Stiles’ bare belly rise and fall with every pant. Stiles giggles, but they quickly turn to soft moans as Derek wraps his free hand around his cock, easing more sweet sounds out of him with slow, smooth strokes. 

“Ah, Derek.” Stiles licks his lips. “That feels amazing.”

Derek grins, nipping at Stiles’ chin.

“Yeah?”

Stiles grins.

“Hell yeah.”

His thighs tighten around Derek’s hips, wiggling, dragging his pants down with a demanding grunt. Derek raises a brow at him.

“Want help?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I’ll get there eventually.”

Derek gives Stiles a chaste kiss, repositioning him gently so that he won’t fall over when he steps back to remove his pants. He kicks them to the side, reaching for Stiles again with a muffled whimper. He reaches a hand between them, wrapping it around both of their cocks. Stiles wraps his legs around him, encouraging Derek with the drag of his heels against Derek’s backside. The air around Derek feels filled with static- warm and fuzzy. He rocks against Stiles, holding his legs up with his free hand, and Stiles hangs on, unbalanced and unafraid. His strokes grow faster, and Stiles keens deep in the back of his throat. 

“Ah-“ one of them gasps, Derek’s not quite sure who, and then Stiles is _there_ , his legs trembling, muscles tensing and releasing. His breath stutters, and Derek readjusts to keep Stiles upright as he goes limp. 

“That was… Derek.”

Stiles tries to stand on wobbly feet.

“Stiles, it’s okay.”

Stiles places a hand on Derek’s hip, looking up at him.

“Let me?”

Derek pauses, then shrugs.

“Okay.”

Stiles wiggles away from the table, dropping to his knees in front of Derek. He looks up at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still on his hip. Derek gulps. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Derek hisses, and Stiles grasps him, his lips slipping around the head, smoother than the memory of velvet, hot and wet and slick. Derek, for a moment, forgets to breathe. The head of his cock bumps against the roof of Stiles’ mouth. He grasps for something to hang on to, settling on Stiles’ shoulder in his left hand, and the edge of the table with his right. He thrusts shallowly, struggling to keep still. 

Stiles swallows around him in response, and Derek can feel it all the way at the top of his spine. He stokes Stiles with his fingers, exploring his skin up to the back of his neck, the edges of his evenly-cropped hair. He gasps at the pressure of Stiles’ tongue. 

“That’s… oh.”

He thinks he can feel Stiles grinning around him, his head bobbing up and down. The rhythm is slow, but the tension is steady, and Derek can feel the edges of his orgasm bubbling up from the bottom of hie toes. 

“Stiles?” He rasps.

Stiles keeps going. Derek gulps, trying again.

“I’m almost-”

Stiles hums, and Derek feels his knees threatening to give out, pressure blossoming behind his eyes when he closes them in ecstasy. He gasps. Stiles swallows around him. It happens fast, too fast, and Stiles sucks him down, gulping greedily. 

“Stiles.”

He feels Stiles slip off, hears the small popping noise his lips make.

“Good?”

Derek hears himself chuckle, and the sound of it surprises him.

“Yeah. Really good.”

Stiles looks very pleased with himself. Derek strokes the skin behind Stiles’ ear, toying lazily with his hair. The air begins to cool against his skin. 

Beneath him, Stiles begins to giggle.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just. That song. It’s still stuck in my head.”

Derek snorts.

“Me too.” He offers Stiles a hand. “Come here?”

Stiles rises, and Derek pulls him into a gentle kiss, wrapping his arms around his torso. The kisses turn into nuzzles, and Derek drags his lips across Stiles’ cheek lazily, until he rests his chin on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles breathes a contented hum into Derek’s skin. 

“This is really nice, Derek.”

Derek nods.

“Thank you.”

He can feel Stiles grinning against him.

“It was, literally, my pleasure. No thanks necessary.”

Derek chuckles, giving Stiles one last squeeze before pulling away.

“We should probably clean you up.”

Stiles looks down at himself. He’s quite a mess, come drying on his taut skin.

“I guess.” He shrugs, heading for the basin of water in the corner. “Did you find anything else,” he asks over his shoulder. “In the box, I mean?”

Derek nods, before he realizes that Stiles probably can’t see him.

“Something. Mostly old family things.” He still hasn’t decided if he wants to share those. Stiles gasps as the cold water his his skin, and Derek decides to deflect his attention, for the time being. 

“There was a book though. It smelled different. And nothing was in English. I couldn’t read it.”

Stiles readjusts his sweater, and comes back for his pants, which lay in a wrinkled pile on the floor. He pulls them on, hopping a little. 

“That sounds like something. Want me to take a look?”

Derek shrugs, reaching for the table where he’d left he box. 

“Here.”

Stiles traces his fingers over the cover of the book, rubbing the dust on his fingers absent-mindedly. 

“I think it’s Old Castillian. Is your family Spanish?”

“We could be.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Very insightful. Thank you.” Stiles begins to pace. “It looks like an old book on healing spells. I only understand, like, one word in ten. Which I guess could be something. Lydia could probably translate it, she knows like, a million languages…”

As Stiles passes the door, Derek notices a faint hum. Derek hears it before Stiles does- a low rumble coming from the walls of the compound. Stiles trails off when he sees Derek’s ears perk up. It takes a moment for the sound to get loud enough for a human to pick up, but Derek knows the moment Stiles recognizes the noise because his skin pales considerably. 

“Trouble?” As if it isn’t obvious. Stiles nods.

“Scott’s on the wall right now. I need to go.”

Derek nods, reaching for their coats, which hang on a hook by the door.

“I’ll come with you.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“They might actually need a doctor, but-”

“But who’s going to make sure the doctor doesn’t get hurt? I’m coming.”

Derek crosses his arms, and Stiles grits his teeth.

“There’s no time to argue.”

“So don’t.”

Stiles blinks. He shakes his head, pulling his sweater on haphazardly. 

“Fine. Let’s go.”


	22. Mama Mama you're not sick\All you need is a licorice stick

Stiles wasn’t a runner, before.

He used to be best friends with an asthmatic, and he used to live in a fairly quiet suburb where things never went bump in the night. Things have changed considerably. His best friend is now a werewolf who could tear him in half on a bad day and doesn’t break a sweat when he runs a mile. Stiles has had too many days where he had to either run, or get eaten by something larger and meaner. He’s wiry and strong and he can run like hell when he needs to. He doesn’t check to see if Derek is behind him, he just assumes that the werewolf can keep up. The horn at the wall is abruptly cut short, and Stiles leaps over the trellis outside Finstock’s cottage, his blood beating in his ears as he accelerates. 

He’s not the only one, either. There are first-responders stationed in houses closer to the wall, and all of them are spilling out towards to sirens, armed and ready to fend off whatever invader has decided to fuck with Beacon Hills this week. 

Except it’s not an invader.

When they reach the wall, Stiles sees the barricades, still intact, and the gate, secured and whole. The guards aren’t running to their battle stations, they’re heading for the bunker. He belatedly realizes that whatever threat this is, it’s come from inside. 

He hears a furious roar, and he doesn’t stop.

There’s a crowd outside the bunker, but Stiles doesn’t blink before he darts inside. 

The bunker isn’t all the way on fire when he gets there, but it’s close. Someone must have overturned the brazier in the commotion, because hot coals litter the floor, and sparks are just beginning to ignite. Stiles leaps over at all, headed for Scott, lying prone on the floor, a deep gash across his abdomen. And even as he’s examining the wound, applying pressure, letting his body take over and do what he’s trained himself to do way too many times, he’s thinking. Scott is a werewolf. The injury should be healing. He shouldn’t still be bleeding. He shouldn’t be in this much pain. Werewolves heal. 

Except when they’ve been attacked by an alpha.

Stiles yelps when he feels himself picked up from behind, a ruthless set of claws circling his neck. He chokes, his hands grasping uselessly at the burly arm of the werewolf hoisting up. His legs dangle in the air. Somewhere by the door, he hears a familiar growl, fierce and violent, and he’s extremely grateful Derek is a stubborn jerk. 

He feels more than hears the moment when Derek attacks. Stiles is suddenly flung sideways, and he lands badly. His right leg collides with the sharp wreckage beneath him with an excruciating crunch. He tucks into a roll, biting his lip to keep from screaming as his back hits the wall. Illuminated by the spreading fire, he sees Derek, crouching defensively in front of him. But the other wolf, his features obscured by the change, isn’t coming after him.

“Scott!”

Derek realizes it too, and lunges for the other wolf again. 

They tumble, snarling. Stiles struggles to his feet, using a broken chair as a crutch. There are bodies among the scattered debris on the floor, too many of them people that Stiles recognizes, all of them beyond his help. Outside, he can hear others struggling with the fire. He limps around a smoldering pile of furniture before he reaches Scott, who is struggling to sit up.

“Stiles!”

Stiles crumbles to the floor beside him, ignoring the pain in his leg. 

“Scott, please tell me you can move. Because I don’t think I’m gonna be able to drag your ass out of here.”

Scott grimaces, clutching his stomach.

“I can make it.”

There’s a high-pitched noise just overhead, and a flash of silver, before Stiles sees an arrow embedded in the chest of the werewolf. It snarls, and Derek rolls away from it, unharmed but for a few scratches on his forearms. 

Illuminated by the firelight, Allison stands in the doorway, another arrow already aiming for their attacker. Beside her is Isaac, claws out, but his face is still human, excepting the fangs peeking out of the corner of his lips. Allison glares at the injured werewolf, tearing at her arrow, still embedded in his chest.

“I’d leave it alone if I were you.”

Derek grabs Stiles’ shoulder, hoisting Scott up with his other hand. Stiles stumbles, hopping on his good leg, but he manages to keep up with Derek, joining Allison and Isaac by the door. Isaac catches Scott, pulling him outside. Stiles turns to follow, since he’s currently the resident medical expert, but he doesn’t want to leave without Derek. Derek, who is still stiff and defensive, glaring at the wounded invader. 

“Derek?”

The attacker croaks, blood gurgling around his lips. He begins to shift back, his features softening as the hair and muscles recede.

“Derek Hale.” It whispers. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Derek glowers, baring his fangs.

“Gerard.”

“Don’t!” It’s Allison, but she’s speaking to their adversary- Gerard, if Derek is right. He’d taken a step forward, but immediately stopped and put his hands up in surrender at the command of Allison’s arrow. Derek doesn’t budge either, his claws tense, ready for an attack. Stiles has a hunch this isn’t a friendly reunion. He hates his hunches. 

Behind him, he can hear the rest of the guards preparing to take this guy down. Not that they’ll be needed, it seems like Allison’s done a fine job all on her own. She hasn’t held a bow in months, but you wouldn’t know it, to look at her. The way she’s standing, it’s like the weapon is just an extension of her arms. The fire is almost under control, Stiles doubts it will spread anywhere else, which is good. He glances at Derek, but it’s like he’s gone, not paying any attention to what’s going on around him. His pupils are wide, despite the brightness of the still-flickering flames. His teeth are still bared. His entire being is focused on Gerard.

Derek snarls.

“How did you find me?”

Gerard cocks his head to the side.

“Derek. So self-centered. I didn’t come here for you.” He glances at Allison, whose arrows is still notched and ready, aiming for his heart. “I came for something else.”

Allison glares at him.

“Whatever it is. You’re not getting it without a fight. And it looks to me like you’ve already lost.”

The strange Alpha smiles. The guards, having stopped the spread of the fire, file in around Allison. She remains steadfast, her eyes never flickering away from her mark. Gerard allows himself to be bound with wolfsbane tethers, though they must sting something fierce. Stiles watches as he’s led away. The Alpha’s expression never changes. He’s not like other invaders, wild-eyed and starving. Aside form the occasional wince caused by strain on his injury, he looks almost pleased.

Derek doesn’t move.

Sighing, Allison finally lowers her bow. She turns to look at Stiles.

“Oh my God!”

Stiles imagines he doesn’t look his best, but her tone is a little bit insulting. 

Until he looks down at his leg, mangled and bleeding. It’s a testament to the power of adrenaline and the fucked-up life he’s led that he doesn’t pass out. The pain, previously relegated to a faint buzz when things like fire and dangerous monsters had been the priority, now hits him in a crushing wave. He grimaces, falling against the wall for support. Dizzily, he realizes that there’s something lodged in his calf. He knows that it’s probably kept him from bleeding out thus far, but he knows that ever if it’s regular wood, it can’t stay in there forever.

And, with his luck, it’s probably going to be some of the wood spliced with wolfsbane. The nasty, werewolf-deterrent, deadly to humans concoction that was _supposed_ to prevent disasters of precisely this nature. 

He feels strong arms grip him, and looks up.

“Derek.”

“You need a doctor.”

He laughs then, choking on his own agony.

“Derek. I am the doctor.”


	23. Spanaemia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some fairly graphic descriptions of an extremely painful and bloody injury. The chapter next week will be more cuddly, pinky-swear. 
> 
> If anyone wants to know, this is the resource I used for post-apocalypse surgery: http://armageddonmedicine.net/?p=1457
> 
> tl;dr I don't recommend becoming a post-apocalypse surgeon.

Derek turns on Allison, whose lips are drawn in a tight, thin line.

“Don’t tell me there’s no one else?!”

She shakes her head. Scott leans on Allison’s shoulder, grimacing at the blood trickling between his fingers. 

“My mom was the only other doctor. And she’s gone. They’re not supposed to be back for at least another week.”

Derek snarls. He smells blood and ash and fear and fire wolfsbane and pain and he doesn’t know what to do, it all smells too familiar, too acrid, too sulfuric. And Gerard is here, and that means the others can’t be far behind, and he needs to leave he needs to _run_ , but he can’t. Stiles is bleeding. Stiles is dying. It goes against all logic, but he knows he has to stay. Wild wolves don’t leave a dying pack member behind, trapped in a hunters’ snare or limping after a fight. No matter the danger. Stiles isn’t family, is barely even a friend. But his wolf thinks Stiles is pack now. And he can’t leave pack behind. 

“Lydia.” Stiles is mumbling around the pain. “Go get her.”

Scott hobbles away from Allison, nodding. She hesitates, sharing a glance with Scott, then hooks her bow to her belt, darting outside. Derek gathers Stiles up, trying to be delicate.

“Scott-”

Scott leans over before Stiles can reach for him.

“I’m okay. I can hear Isaac coming.” He looks up at Derek. “Go.”

Derek nods, whispering to Stiles. “We need to get you outside. Away from the smoke.”

Stiles nods, his head jerking arrhythmically. 

“Yeah. Try not to move me too much.”

As gently as possible, Derek steps around the debris of the guardhouse, holding Stiles in his arms. Outside, the air feels cleaner, pine-laden and cool. He lays Stiles down on a soft patch of grass, mindful of his leg. He elevates it a little, hoping that’s the right thing to do. Derek doesn’t know much about human injuries, nothing useful. He knows they don’t heal like his, he knows they’re more dangerous. 

Stiles takes a few gasping breaths.

“Derek. This is gonna suck. I mean. _Really_ suck.”

Derek licks his lips.

“What do you need me to do?”

Stiles closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his gaze is steady, though his body is starting to shake.

“No one else here knows how to handle an injury like this. Everything that needs doing, I’m going to have to do myself. Or explain to you.” He grits his teeth. “Don’t let me stop.”

Derek nods, grasping Stiles’ tight fist.

“Let me take some of the pain away.”

Stiles looks like he wants to argue, but then he moves his leg, and Derek can see the pain as it convulses through Stiles’ body.

“Don’t take too much. Just keep me out of shock, if you can.”

Derek swallows, and starts.

The pain flows through Stiles, stark black lines against his pale skin. Derek bears it, letting the throbbing echoes flow through him. Allison returns swiftly, with Lydia in tow. Stiles glances up at them over Derek’s shoulder, and Derek sees him straightening, trying to hide the seriousness of the injury from them. 

“Lydia. I need hot water. A lot of it. A needle and thread. Blankets. Rubbing alcohol. And wine. Allison.” Derek sees him bite back a groan, and he tries to take on more of the pain. “I need to you look after Scott, and the others. That invader was an Alpha, their injuries aren’t healing right. They’re going to need water, and skin to skin contact.”

Allison is shaking her head.

“Stiles, no, you need me more-“

“They need their pack.” Stiles speaks through clenched teeth. “Injuries from an Alpha won’t heal if they’re left alone. They _need_ you.”

Allison hesitates, and Derek can’t blame her. Stiles is pale and shivering. Finally, Lydia nods, and they both depart.

Alone again for the moment, Stiles closes his eyes, whimpering when everyone else is out of earshot. Derek shifts slowly, settling behind Stiles, wrapping him up in his warmth. In his arms, Stiles is still shaking. He reaches for the leg of his pants, and Derek stops him.

“I have to see how bad it is”-

“I know. Let me.”

Stiles nods, and Derek tears at the fabric. It falls away easily underneath his claws. There’s a deep gash, most of the bleeding blocked by a large splinter of wood. Stiles hisses at the damage. 

“Goddamn it.” He groans. “I’m going to be fucking hobbling around for months with this. I’m no use to anyone.”

Derek shakes his head.

“That’s what you’re worried about?”

Stiles grips his hand, white-knuckled and tense.

“I’d rather not think about the alternative.”

Derek closes his eyes. He can hear Lydia returning, barking orders on her way.

“You can do this Stiles.” What he doesn’t say is _please_. Please be able to do this. Please come out the other side. Please don’t die here. _Please_. 

“Okay Stiles.” Lydia crouches beside them, not commenting on their positions. She lays a blanket over Stiles, and Derek wraps it more securely around his abdomen. Lydia nods her approval. “Tell me where to start.”

Stiles gestures to his thigh.

“I need you to tie a tourniquet around my leg. I can’t tell if it hit anything important. But knowing my luck it probably did.”

Lydia nods, tying a thin, tight knot just above his knee. Derek does his best to soothe away the pain that flows through him in waves. Lydia works with alacrity, her fingers deft and sure. She looks up at Stiles when she’s done, her eyes steady.

“What now?”

Stiles chews on his lip; Derek sees the tension out of the corner of his eye.

“This is the hardest part. That needs to come out.”

Derek feels himself start to argue, but Lydia protests first.

“Stiles, if it hasn’t nicked an artery yet-”

“I can’t wait for Melissa to get back. If they ever do. The poison in the wood is already making me dizzy.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow.

“Or that could just be the blood loss.”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Out. Now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Lydia sighs. She rinses her hands with alcohol, then the rags. Then finally, she trickles some wine onto the wound. Stiles grunts, trying not to betray any discomfort. Derek imagines it must sting. He can’t sort out the different kinds of pain he’s taking from Stiles. It just _hurts_ , a burning, aching pressure he’s consuming through his skin. He can’t sort the difference between the stinging antiseptic pain or the crushing bone against wood pain or the burning skin tearing pain. He rubs Stiles’ arms, trying to keep him warm. 

Lydia purses her lips, getting a tight grip on the wood.

“Stiles-”

“Do it.”

Derek is surprised by Lydia’s strength. She doesn’t warn him. Doesn’t give him the opportunity to tense up or back out. She yanks it out, clean.

Stiles yelps as the wound begins to bleed again. Lydia immediately grabs a clean rag and presses it against Stiles’ leg. Stiles clutches futilely at his thigh, fingers clenching and unclenching. Derek whispers things he thinks might be soothing, quiet shushing noises and calm whispers, barely words. The caustic tang of Stiles’ sweat fills his nose, and the scent sets him on edge. It smells bad, like fear and agony, but he clamps down on the flutters inside his chest. He’s not going anywhere. 

In the background, he can hear Lydia counting. It seems like no time at all passes before she’s looking up at Stiles again.

“Stiles. Stiles.” she glances at Derek. “Is he okay?”

Derek nods, nudging Stiles with his cheek.

“Stiles. Open your eyes. Lydia needs you.”

Stiles nods, his head wobbling on his neck.

“Right. Keep pressure on it.”

His head lolls. Lydia’s lip trembles.

“Stiles.”

Derek can hear his heart stuttering. The beat is still strong though. He murmurs against Stiles’ neck, willing the words to be clear, taking as much pain as he can manage, and then some. 

“Stiles. What do we need to do next?”

Stiles tries to speak, his jaw working.

“I need to see.”

Derek looks up at Lydia, but she heard. Slow and gentle, she pulls the cloth away. It’s soaked with blood, but the injury itself isn’t seeping as rapidly as it had been. Meekly, Derek sees Stiles smile.

“It’s okay. We didn’t get an artery. Not a big one, anyway.” He sighs. “Clean it out. Lukewarm water and wine. Rinse away as much of the dirt and splinters as you can. When it’s ready, we can close it up.”

Lydia nods, gathering supplies to decontaminate the needle and thread. Stiles shudders, waving his hands almost mutely while he whispers instructions. He twitches when she plunges the needle through his skin, but his shaking begins to subside. For her part, Lydia is calm and efficient, speaking only to ask for clarification. Her heartbeat is steady, and her hands are sure.

She finishes, rinsing the wound again. Stiles relaxes his head against Derek, sighing.

“Thanks, big guy. Just keep me awake for a little longer. The worst of the danger has passed.”

Derek nods, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ shoulder. He feels dizzy, his arms shaking with the strain of taking on Stiles’ pain. But it’s better than letting him suffer. If he never hears noises like that again, it’ll be too soon. 

“Derek?” Lydia offers him a canteen. He takes it and presses it to Stiles’ lips. Stiles slurps, and Derek pulls it away for a second. When he gives it back, Derek forces him to take slow, deep gulps.

There a clamor in the distance, and Derek looks up.

“Someone’s coming. From outside the wall.”

Lydia’s eyes widen, and she stands, wiping dirt off her clothes with a perfunctory glance. 

“I’ll send someone to look after you.” She scans Stiles. “He should be inside. Close to the hearth.”

Derek nods.

“Get us a stretcher. I’ll take care of him.”

Lydia nods, hesitant to leave.

“Thank you.”


	24. Cicatrix

Stiles is conscious, but unaware. He can hear Derek’s voice, and he clings to it. He can feel Derek’s hands, can feel the pain, muted but all-encompassing. He grits his teeth and tries to breathe. 

He feels himself being moved, and gives half-hearted instructions that he can’t be bothered to see executed. He realizes he’s inside when the air around him grows warmer, when the smells that surround him are more human than wild. He closes his eyes, just for a second, until ungentle hands force him awake. He mutters insults and hope they stick. He’s dizzy and miserable and he just wants to let go. He knows that on the other side of unconsciousness is relief. 

The better part of him knows he’s not ready to go there yet. 

He feels cool hands on his cheek, and when he opens his yes, he thinks he must be hallucinating.

“Melissa?”

She smiles down at him, stroking tears from his cheeks.

“I told you not to get into any trouble while I was gone.”

There’s no bite to her words, and even though it hurts to move, Stiles finds himself laughing.

“What can I say? I’m kind of the resident shit-starter here. Gotta keep my reputation in order.”

Melissa swats at him.

“Stop moving. You’re making my job harder.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, trying not to squirm as she examines his injury. On his other side, he feels Derek stroking his palm, and tries to focus on that. He cracks a smile that Derek doesn’t return.

“Some date I am.” He glances at Derek’s hand, streaked with thin black marks. “You don’t have to do that.”

Derek shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

Stiles knows it’s not true. He can see the tension in Derek’s cheeks where he’s clenching his jaw, but there’s no strength left him him to argue, and he’s not too proud to accept the support. He glances at Melissa, fastidiously checking his injury, tongue clicking in frustration with every approximation of medical care thy’ve had to jerry-rig over the past couple years. Silk thread- not ideal by anyone’s account, but it’s the best they have. Water and wine instead of saline solution. A needle borrowed from an upholstery shop. He’d been with her, in the early days, pulling it all together, going with scouts to find supplies. The end days have come and gone, and they’re living off the pieces of what remains. 

“Melissa.”

“Don’t talk Stiles.” She fills a ladle with water, urging him to drink. “Just rest. You’ll be okay.”

He sips, and swallowing takes more strength than he’d expect.

“You’re back early. Did you find them?”

She pauses, then shakes her head.

“It’s not important right now.”

Stiles struggles to sit up, alert even with his weak limbs.

“Of course it’s important. Melissa, they might know-“

She grabs his shoulders, pushing him back down.

“Stiles, you’ve lost a lot of blood. You can’t- help me!” The last is directed at Derek. His grip tightens on Stiles’ hand, but he doesn’t move to restrain him.

“He’s just going to keep at it until you tell him what you know.” Derek’s eyes glitter, betraying his faint amusement. “He’s stubborn.”

Stiles nods.

“Damn right I am.”

Above him, Melissa groans.

“You’re worse than Scott.” She shakes her head. “I’ll tell you, _if_ you rest and _if_ you promise not to put any weight on that leg for at least a week.”

He nods, closing his eyes. Stiles knows he’s lying to her, and he suspects she’s cottoned on. But he needs to know. Even if he’s useless right now, he needs to know. Melissa places a hand on his forehead.

“Jackson’s alive.”

Stiles feels his eyes go wide, but Melissa subdues him before he can barrage her with questions.

“That’s all we know, for now. He’s not in great shape.”

Stiles swallows.

“But, is he-?”

“He will be.” She nods. “He’ll be okay.” She pats his shoulder. “And so will you. After you get some rest.”

He rolls his eyes, but he can feel how heavy his lids are. Melissa rises, stoking the fire on her way out. Beside him, Derek is stoic and solid, and Stiles can feel him leeching the pain away. It’s not gone, not by a long shot, but he knows he should feel a lot worse than he does. He’s grateful that the dull throbbing is just that, and not the sharp, bleak agony he remembers all too clearly. 

“So.” Derek licks his lips. “Jackson?”

Stiles nods.

“He was bitten. Just before everything changed. He couldn’t remember much, and with everything that happened, all the fighting and panic, we didn’t realize that he might have seen something useful. Until it was too late.” He suppresses a shudder, remembering. “You ever seen a kanima?”

Derek nods, stiff.

“Well, that’s what he turned into. And he found the wrong master.”

“I figured.” Derek stories his arm. “You should rest. I don’t need to hear all this now.”

“What about you?” Stiles struggles to move. It hurts, but he wants to look at Derek head-on. The man is tired, that much is clear. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is pale. “Derek, you’ve got to be exhausted, taking all that pain away. You have to let go.”

Derek shakes his head.

“I’m not going to.”

Stiles grits his teeth.

“Look. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. Because I do. I really, really don’t want to find out how bad this actually hurts. But you don’t owe me this. You don’t owe me anything.”

Derek shrugs, but he doesn’t let go.

“Did it occur to you that I’m here because I want to be?”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. Beside them, a dry twig snaps in the fireplace, and the shadows dance smoothly over Derek’s face, casting his features in soft shadows. 

“Derek.”

“It didn’t happen all at once. And I didn’t do it intentionally. But you are-” He cuts himself off, struggling for words, and Stiles waits for him, letting the silence rest. Finally, Derek grunts. “I finally have myself convinced that you’re not out to get me. That you’re not going to hurt me. Let me have that. Please. Let me stay.”

Stiles considers this. It seems cruel to keep Derek here, but… He sighs. Derek doesn’t ask for things, not really. He’s accepted food and shelter and help, all grudgingly. Like he’s constantly waiting for it to be taken away, to be revealed as just a taunt. Stiles knows there’s a lot Derek isn’t saying, and he doesn’t want to push. But he understands that this means something. It might be a werewolf thing or it might just be a Derek thing. So, ultimately, there’s not a lot to consider.

Stiles wiggles, delicately, making space on the pallet.

“Come on sourwolf. Tuck in.”

Derek’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either, and considering how vulnerable he’s being at the moment, Stiles counts that as a victory. Derek settles in beside him, and wraps an arm around Stiles’ abdomen. The room starts to feel warm, really, truly warm, and Stiles closes his eyes, promising himself he’ll only sleep for a little while.

Some promises just aren’t worth keeping. 


	25. reflexes

Dozing, but not asleep, Derek hears Scott approaching and is alert and out of bed minutes before he’s even near the door. Despite his caution, he jostles Stiles with his haste. Stiles opens his eyes, blinking. He tries to move, and by his startled yelp Derek realizes that Stiles must have forgotten about his injury. Derek presses a tender hand on Stiles’ thigh, keeping him still as he wakes up. 

“Don’t move it,” he whispers as Scott knocks on the door, a formal courtesy that Derek appreciates, even if it’s meaningless. “Stiles, how’s the pain?”

Stiles grits his teeth, but his eyes are clear when he opens them.

“I’ll live.” He grunts, trying to sit up. “Who’s at the door?”

“Scott.”

Stiles nods, and Derek rises to let him in. Scott is pale, but he smiles wide when he sees Stiles, awake and almost whole. He steps inside with gentle steps, deferring to Derek like a brother. It’s not an overt gesture, doubtless an instinct and not a decisive choice on Scott’s part. Truthfully, Derek doesn’t think anyone but a born wolf would even notice. His scent, he knows, fills the room, covering Stiles like a blanket. It’s a promise of safety, and retribution for anyone that challenges it. 

Leaving his mark like that had been natural, just like breathing. Before Scott had crossed the threshold, Derek didn’t even notice it. But there it is. 

Scott sits beside Stiles, hands in his lap.

“Stiles, bro. You look terrible.”

Stiles laughs, choking on it a little.

“Nah. I’m getting ready to run a marathon. Watch out. I’m gonna leave your little werewolfy ass in the dust.” He reaches for a glass of water on the side table, and Scott picks it up for him before Derek can reach the bedside. He ends up hovering, awkward and silent as Stiles and Scott exchange lighthearted pleasantries, wondering when he lost the art of being playful himself. 

“I’d kick your ass for being so reckless, but I’m pretty sure you already got it handed to you.” Scott rubs his thumb against fingers. “Allison was really worried. You can’t scare her like that.”

Stiles shrugs, though Derek knows what Scott means, and he suspects Stiles does as well.

“Is she still helping with the other wounded soldiers?” He offers, trying to ease the tension he can see building up between Stiles’ eyebrows. 

Scott shakes his head.

“I sent her home to get some rest.” He shakes his head. “Mom flipped when she saw her. I don’t know if she was excited about being a grandmother, mad that we were up all night helping, or relieved she made it back before the birth.” Scott winces. “Probably some terrifying combination of all three.”

Stiles snickers.

“Speaking of, you’re not home with her?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. And Isaac’s there.” Scott shrugs. “They’ll be fine on their own.”

Derek hears Scott’s heartbeat falter, but he’s not lying. Not quite. Hedging. Poorly. It’s a technique Derek has come to understand, but he also suspects he understands the reason for the evasion, and what he can’t guess, he can smell. Still, it makes him edgy. He decides to try and let it go, at least for the moment. Stiles trusts Scott, and he trusts Stiles. It’s nerve-wracking, knowing that Stiles can’t hear it, can’t see the way Scott won’t look directly at him when he talks about Allison with Isaac. 

“How well is he contained?”

Scott’s eyelids flicker at Derek’s bluntness, but his answer is even and companionable.

“Well enough. There are cells down by the south wall. Wolfsbane wrapped around the bars. And our emissary drew a circle in mountain ash around it. Not even an Alpha could break out- or in.” Scott shrugs. “It’s where we’ve been keeping the other one. Peter.”

Derek feels himself stiffen.

“He’s still here.”

Scott nods.

“He wanted to claim sanctuary. Lydia wanted him to prove he’s not still feral. After this…” Scott cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Between them, Stiles grunts.

“Does anyone think it’s related? This new attack and… Peter?”

Scott shrugs, glancing at Derek.

“Allison said he knew you.”

Derek closes his eyes, nodding.

“Gerard was in the Northeast when everything changed. He wasn’t someone you wanted to meet.”

Between them, Stiles struggles upright, fiddling with the blankets.

“We need to know what he came here for.” He pulls the covers aside. “If people suspect you-“

Derek catches Stile’s shoulder, forcing him to settle back onto the pallet.

“Then they suspect. I can leave if you need me to.” He quirks an eyebrow at Stiles’ expression. “Stiles, your leg is-”

“Not as bad at it looks.” He shakes Derek off. “I’m okay.”

Scott snorts.

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Stiles glares, and Derek takes the opportunity to place a furtive hand on Stiles’ shoulder, trying to get a sense of the pain. 

“Stiles. Let me go. If Gerard is here for me…” He shudders. “He’s always got a plan. I remember that much. Either way, I can probably get some answers. I should show Lydia what we found in the safe anyway.”

Stiles bristles underneath his hand. 

“I should go with you.”

“And do what?” Derek groans. “He’s in a cage. I can’t get in, and he can’t get out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Stiles snorts. “With our luck?”

Watching the exchange, Scott coughs.

“Lydia mentioned she wanted you there while she interrogated him. Because he… uh, seemed to know you. If you head over there now, Braeden will be on guard duty. I trust her.”

Derek nods, rising. Stiles grunts.

“This is so dumb. I need to-”

Scott settles Stiles down before Derek can sit back down.

“You need to stay here and tell me what to do when they move Jackson.” Scott shrugs. “Mom says he’ll do better here, something about the fire. But she’s probably got other stuff to do. So I’ll have to be your hands for a little while.”

Derek catches Stiles’ sour expression before the door closes behind him.

“My _hands_ are just fine.”


	26. Split Decision

 

Derek stops in Stiles’ cabin to pick up the book. It feels strange, being there alone. His scent has mingled with Stiles’, pine and cinder and antiseptic and something underneath it all that reminds him of cinnamon. If he closes his eyes, he can visualize every room, and walk through the space without flinching. The creaks in the wood and the wind as it whistles are all familiar sounds, though missing is the rustle of Stiles breathing, cleaning, humming, working. His senses are telling him that’s he’s not a stranger here, but he still doesn’t feel entitled to the space. 

He yawns, stretching the sore muscles in his neck. He’s exhausted, and in the back of his mind he knows he shouldn’t see Gerard like this. Even caged and beaten, Gerard is dangerous. 

Which is exactly why he _has_ to see him. 

Stiles is right. Gerard isn’t some half-wild wandering Omega. He’s an _Alpha_. He didn’t attack Beacon Hills randomly, Gerard is there because he wants something. Derek shudders, considering the possibilities. Gerard had been surprised to see him, but Derek knows it’s only because Gerard hadn’t expected him to live this long. But if he’s not there for Derek… he shakes his head. It’s useless to wonder, when he knows where his answers are.

He stalls for a few more minutes anyway. 

 

“Dude, I know your hands are fine. It’s your hero complex that needs to take a break.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You’re one to talk. I wasn’t the one that ran into the burning complex a few months ago.”

Scott grins.

“Only because you were trying to subdue that feral werewolf outside. Which was _also_ dangerous. Seeing as you don’t heal.”

Stiles crosses his arms.

“I _heal_.”

“Not like I do.” Scott playfully punches Stile’s shoulder. “Come on. You had us all worried.”

Stiles shrugs.

“I handled it.”

Scott shakes his head. 

“Stiles. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t carry all of us on your shoulders.”

Stiles scowls.

“Like you’re doing with Allison.” Stiles cuts him off before he can argue. “Don’t Scott. I know something’s off, I’m not your best friend for nothing.”

Scott grunts.

“You’re a pain in the ass sometimes.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Of course I am. You gonna keep dodging what’s bothering you?”

Scott sighs.

 

Derek follows the once-familiar scent. Lydia is already standing by the cells, warded by a petite, dark-skinned woman with scars along the side of her face. Lydia doesn’t look surprised to see him, and waves him over, a tentatively friendly smile flickering across her face. Derek nods in lieu of greeting them. He studiously avoids looking for Peter and Gerard, still not sure which one he’s dreading more. His skin feels tight, and his can feel his claws threatening to extend, hit teeth sharp, pricking his lips. He swallows, and his mouth still feels dry. There’s a breeze, and though it’s gentle, the smallest breath of air feels sharp against his skin. 

Lydia jerks her head in greeting, glancing at the book under his arm.

“Did you find that outside?”

He nods, handing it to her, glad to stall for another few minutes.

“Laura had it. Stiles thought you might be able to read it. It’s probably nothing.”

She nods, taking the book. “It’s worth checking at least.” She doesn’t sound too hopeful, but she handles it gently anyway. When Derek doesn’t move, she glances at him, her eyes soft and too kind.

“Are you sure, Derek?”

He nods, not trusting his voice. 

The other woman, Braeden, grimaces.

“This isn’t how we should be dealing with this.”

 

“The baby isn’t mine.” Scott shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal. We knew it was a fifty-fifty chance. I didn’t think it would bother me.”

Stiles scratches his chin. 

“But it does. It has been.”

Scott nods. 

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m still gonna love it. And it’s _ours_ , all three of us. It doesn’t mean anything.” He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t bother me.”

Stiles furrows his brow.

“But you can smell it? For sure?”

Scott nods.

“Yeah. Since the last full moon.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s like us too- well, like Isaac. We’re having a were-baby. Stiles?”

Stiles looks down, and realizing how tightly he’s gripping the sheets.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?”

 

Lydia doesn’t glare, but her voice is firm.

“It’s not your decision. He claims to have information about what happened years ago.” She glances at Derek. “You knew him. Do you think it might be true?”

Derek closes his eyes.

“I think he’s listening to every word we say.”

Beneath the sound of the wind and the heartbeats, he hears Gerard chuckle. It’s not a comforting noise. He looks up, watching Lydia. She’s nervous, he can see the tension between hey eyebrows. The ‘stead isn’t used to fielding attacks like these. And any decision she makes will probably mean lives lost. He can smell her fear, her sweat bitter and tangy. But he can also see her resolve. A chance, _any_ chance, to fix things, revert back to zero and start again, is worth the risk to her. 

He thinks of Stiles, the scent of his blood still stuck beneath his fingernails. He should have washed off before he came here. Derek’s not sure what he’s willing to risk anymore. 

 

“Kate.”

Scott crooks his head.

“Kate?”

Stiles grabs Scott’s arm, struggling to follow the trail of his own thoughts.

“Allison’s family, they were hunters, right?”

Scott grasps Stiles’ hand, but he doesn’t trying to disentangle his fingers.

“Yeah. Her parents were. They left when Lydia declared the ‘stead a safe place for werewolves. She doesn’t talk about them much, anymore.”

Stiles nods.

“Her parents. But didn’t she have an aunt? An aunt Kate?”

Scott leans back.

“Stiles. What are you getting at? You’re not making any sense.”

Stiles shakes his head. It’s too hard to think. 

“It was her name. And Derek knew someone called Kate, out east. Peter killed her.” He looks up to see the doubt in Scott’s eyes. “That’s it.”

“Stiles.” Scott’s trying to be reasonable. “It’s a really common name.”

“One is an incident,” Stiles mutters. “Kate is one. Peter’s the second, that’s _two,_ that’s a coincidence.”

Scott squints.

“Two _what_ Stiles?”

Stiles struggles to get up, ignoring Scott’s attempts to get him to sit down.

“Gerard! They’re all people Derek knew! And if Derek knew them, it means Laura knew them! She’s the one that knew how to change this. And now they’re all back here. That’s three Scott! It’s a pattern!”


	27. Of Monsters and Men

Braeden tosses her hair over her shoulder, reaching for the wolfsbane-laced sword on her belt.

“If he’s listening, he’d better know he’s not getting out. And even if he did, he wouldn’t last long against me,” her grip on the hilt is cocky, and Derek suppresses a shudder. “Alpha or no. Beacon Hills is not to be fucked with.”

Lydia purses her lips.

“If we’re lucky, that won’t be necessary. He’s agreed to cooperate.” She nods at Derek. “Let’s go.”

Lydia leads the way, Braeden comfortably alert beside her. Derek tries to clamp down on the scent of fear rising to the surface of his skin. He’s safe here. He’s in control. Gerard is locked up, and his friends are nowhere in sight. Kate is dead, Peter said so. The word morph into a demented mantra, _Kate is dead, I’m in control, Kate is dead, I’m in control_. He knows, the moment he sees Gerard, that his efforts have been useless. Gerard is an Alpha, he can see through Derek, a beta without a pack, a wolf without an anchor. The fear emanating from his sweat probably tastes sweet. 

“Derek. So nice to see you again. I’d get up, but,” he gestures, the chains around his wrists dragging on the ground. “As you can see, I’ve been made very comfortable.”

Derek unclenches his jaw, forcing the words between his teeth.

“Can’t say I’m happy to see you. What did you come here for?”

Gerard smirks, and Derek’s stomach churns. He’s seen that smug face too many times in his nightmares, both sleeping and waking. 

“You should learn to respect your elders, Mr. Hale. Not that you’ve had the best of role models.” Gerard glances to his left, and Derek sees him. A bent over lump in a far corner, another solitary cell. Peter looks dormant, but he’s definitely listening, and Derek knows the docile, defeated posture is entirely put-upon. The fact that Derek didn’t notice him right away puts him on edge. He can’t let himself forget that there are two dangerous predators here. They might be contained, but Gerard and Peter are Alphas, and ruthless with it. Gerard coughs, and Derek tenses. 

“Derek?” Lydia reaches for him, but she doesn’t touch. “Are you-”

Derek shakes his head, but Gerard answers for him. 

“He’s all right. Just a little shell-shocked.” Derek grimaces, which seems to make Gerard happier. “Believe it or not, Derek, I’m not here for you. Though it seems I still owe you a measure of retribution.”

Derek snarls, but Lydia steps in front of him.

“You attacked us.” Her voice is steady and stern. “I’m not were’, but I _am_ the leader of this pack. You might know Derek from before, but when you’re here, you answer to _me_.” Derek can feel the fury emanating from her, and tells himself that he’s not the target. Lydia’s not powerful, but she is _something_ , and he doesn’t want that rage coming anywhere near him. 

From his cell, Gerard apprises her. 

“Well then, young lady. What do I have to answer for?”

Lydia purses her lips.

“You can start with the five people that died trying to calm you down last night. Answer his question. Why are you here?”

Gerard last his hands out, palms up.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m here to see my grandchild?”

Braeden glances at Derek. He shakes his head to the unanswered question.

“No.”

Braeden’s eyebrows go up.

“Just ‘no’?”

Derek sighs.

“Whoever it is, it’s not someone I know.” He glances at Gerard, leaning closer to Lydia. He keeps his voice even, not bothering to whisper, since Gerard would be able to hear him anyway. “And if that is what he’s here for, it’s probably not the whole story.”

Lydia nods, as if she expects no less.

“Is that all?”

Gerard opens his palms.

“I’m willing to exchange all the information I have. Which I’m given to understand is held in high esteem in Beacon Hills.”

Lydia frowns. 

“Very well. You’ll stay here until we decide what to do with you.”

Gerard settles back, chains rattling.

“You’re not even going to ask?”

Lydia shrugs.

“I don’t believe I care to know.”

She turns, Braeden watching Gerard. Derek pauses, glancing at Peter’s cell. His knees are drawn up, but between them, he can sees his eyes are open.

“Lydia.”

She turns, following Derek’s gaze. He’s about to say, wait, trying to sort through his fickle memories, knowing that there’s something _here_ , something he knows but doesn’t understand, when a feeble sound stops him. He straightens, listening, praying he’s wrong, hoping that for once, his senses have failed him. His eyes unwittingly meet Gerard’s, and he knows he’s already revealed his weakness, and curses himself. 

He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, coming closer. 

The kanima sneaks up on all of them. 

Braeden is the first to notice. She shoves Lydia behind her, drawing a sword from her belt and holding it low, her grip sure. The kanima drops gracefully form the ceiling, hissing and staring at all of them in turn. It finally focuses on Derek, yellow eyes unblinking. Derek draws his claws, crouching, and the kanima sways, getting ready to strike.

“Jackson!” Lydia screams as the kanima pounces, swiping at Derek with a tail he knows is poisonous. He rolls, lashing out at the kanima’s torso as he stalks past it, but the creature is faster. It hisses, striking Derek with claws that sting fiercely. Derek crumbles but comes up snarling, his teeth extended. Across from him, Lydia is struggling to get past Braeden, who is steadfastly keeping her away from the fight. 

“Damn it, let me go! He’ll listen to me! Jackson!”

The creature tilts its head, hearing without understanding. Meanwhile, he can hear Stiles’ frantic heartbeat, stuttering the closer he gets. There’s a stubborn beat in tune with his strides, and Derek assumes he must have appropriated something to use as a cane. Stiles is not equipped to deal with a kanima, not with his leg, no matter his protestations to the contrary. Growling, Derek prepares for another assault. 

“Braeden. I can distract it. You need to go.”

She stiffens, but he can’t take his eyes off his enemy as it circles him, looking for weak points.

“No way in hell.”

Derek fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“It won’t go after her. It’s here for me.”

Lydia stops struggling, and Derek can feel her eyes on him.

“How do you know that?” Her voice is steady, but her heart is manic. 

The kanima’s tail swoops, and Derek barely dodges in time.

“We’ve met before. You didn’t find him by accident. Whoever he is to you, this kanima was being held by Deucalion. Which means his master is probably nearby.” He glances at Braeden, and curses himself, because the kanima uses the moment of inattention to strike. He manages to avoid the paralytic tail, but the claws score his shoulder, going deep into his flesh before he’s thrown away. He smacks into one of the cages, his bones cracking. They re-knit slowly, and behind him he can hear crackling laughter. 

“Very good Derek,” Gerard murmurs. 


	28. you've been here before

“Wait! Stiles! Come on!”

Stiles knows Scott isn’t really trying to drag him back. Even on a good day, even before the bite, Scott has always been stronger. So when he feels Scott’s hand on his shoulder, he merely swats it away, hobbling as quick as he can (not fast, _not fast enough_ ) to the holding cells. 

“Scott. I’m not going back. I’m not going to lie down. So do me a favor, and _help me_ get to where I’m going before Derek and Lydia make a huge mistake.”

Scott grunts beside him, but he offers an arm for support, letting Stiles lean on him the rest of the way.

The hear the hissing from outside, and Stiles struggles to move faster. 

Inside, Lydia is haunched in a corner of the room, flipping desperately through the pages of a book while simultaneously watching the battle in front of her. Derek is being circled by the kanima- _Jackson_ , he has to remind himself. The monster is hissing and swiping at him with claws and tail. Derek is crouching low, defending himself, but there’s blood on his clothes and he’s holding his left arm at an awkward angle. He glares at his opponent, dodging another low swipe from the tail, and lashing out with claws of his own. The kanima feints, and lands a glancing blow on Derek’s exposed shoulder. Derek growls, taking a few steps back, not bothering to inspect the damage.

“Derek!”

Derek winces.

“Get back Stiles!”

Stiles steps forward, wobbling on his borrowed cane. He feels an arm against his chest, and looks up to see Scott’s eyes glowing.

“Stiles. Go help Lydia.”

Stiles is about to argue, but Scott knows him well enough by now to cut him off. 

“Whatever she’s trying to do, it’s probably way too complicated for anyone but you to figure out. Do us all a favor and let the idiots fight with their fists.” And with that, he leaps into the fray, tackling the kanima. He’s thrown immediately, managing to duck out of the line of fire as the tail swipes at him. Tearing himself away, ignoring the pain flaring up his side, Stiles limps over to where Lydia is crouching, laying a hand on her shoulder. 

“Please tell me you’ve got something here.”

Lydia’s lips are drawn in a tight, thin line. 

“You could have mentioned sooner you have a book on healing spells.”

Stiles grimaces as Derek ducks another well-aimed blow.

“We were _supposed_ to find something that would reset the apocalypse-”

“Stiles. Priorities.”

He nods jerkily.

“Is there anything in there to help Jackson?”

She shakes her head, not looking at him. 

“So far I see a charm for bee stings and a spell to turn a human into a werewolf, but nothing about changing someone back into their true form.”

“But you have a plan, right?”

Lydia stands.

“I’m going to make him remember who he is.”

She squares her shoulders, stepping closer to the tight circle of combat before them. The kanima swings at Derek, and Scott takes the opportunity to try to wrangle it to the ground. Lydia doesn’t flinch. Scrambling, Stiles grabs her arm, trying to pull her back.

“Hey! Hey, no, that’s a terrible idea.”

Lydia turns on him.

“Stiles, if you try to stop me, I swear to all that is holy I will break your other leg.”

Stiles lets go. 

Lydia doesn’t tremble as she steps forward. The kanima is hissing at Scott, desperately trying to inflict anything resembling damage with his claws. She doesn’t shake when the kanima pushes him aside, focusing on her with its reptilian yellow eyes. She doesn’t wince when Derek tries to jump in between them, slapped aside like he weighs nothing. She faces it, this monster that Jackson has become, without cringing, and without looking back. It snarls at her, and she doesn’t look away. 

“Jackson.” She whispers, but not out of fear. “I know you’re here.”

The kanima bears its teeth at her, tail swinging. Lydia lifts her left hand, a small ring sparkling on her finger.

“I know you remember me.”

The kanima hisses.

“This promise was for ever.” He voice never wavers, and if Stiles could look away he would. The intimacy of the moment is making him cringe. 

“Come whatever may. Through hell and back. That’s what you swore to me.” The green scales begin to recede, the teeth shrinking, the claws retracting. Lydia presses her palm to Jackson’s cheek. “You promised me everything. I’ve been searching and searching for you.” She strokes his skin, half-human. “Please come back.”

Jackson- Jackson _trembles_ , and the kanima form recedes completely. 

Their soft moment is broken by a heavy scuffling which precedes a very grouchy Braeden dragging an unconscious captive behind her.

“Hey.” She nods at them all, taking in the scene. “So. I found the master. Do we still need him alive?”


	29. breathing space

Derek can practically hear Stiles twitching, nervous energy trying to find an outlet. He can’t pace, not with his injury. Scott is practically holding him up. Derek is tempted to reach over and take on some of his pain, knowing the frenzied half-run over to the cells can’t have been good. He might not understand human biology, but he can guess that much. He can smell the adrenaline ebbing away, and he knows the pain is going to return in its place. But Stiles looks like some strange combination of contrite and angry, and Derek isn’t sure what to do with that, so he doesn’t touch him, and doesn’t offer. 

He focuses on being unobtrusive.

“And _why_ didn’t you think it was a priority to tell me you’d found a magical healing book?”

Stiles shrugs, waving his hands awkwardly in the air. “We were going to?”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“ _What_ were you doing when you got back that couldn’t wait?”

Derek tries to remember, then feels himself flush when rememberers what he and Stiles were up to. _Has it really been less than forty eight hours_? He doesn’t look to Stiles for confirmation, not sure his embarrassment won’t show. Thankfully, Stiles is more invested in the argument at hand.

“Look, it’s not-! Did you even hear what I said?”

Lydia crosses her arms.

“Yes.”

Beside her, Braeden is sharpening one of her blades. 

“Then don’t you think we should at least question them?!”

Lydia glares at him.

“Yes Stiles. I think that would have been a wise course of action. And if you hadn’t run all the way over here- _unnecessarily_ \- and blurted out your suspicions, I might have been able to interrogate Peter Hale and Gerard Argent effectively. Unfortunately, they both now know what we want.”

Stiles looks sufficiently cowed. Behind them, Gerard chuckles. 

“Did it never occur to you that we might both be after the same thing?”

Stiles glares at Gerard through the bars of the cell.

“You set our guardhouse on fire and fucked up my leg. Whatever you are, you’re clearly bad news. So I’m gonna go ahead and assume you’re _not_ interested in resetting the world.”

Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Stiles. We hadn’t said anything about that yet.”

Stiles splutters, but Braeden shoots him a quelling glare that’s menacing enough to shut him up, for the moment. Gerard is watching them with thinly veiled interest. Derek glances between him and Peter, still not sure which threat is greater. Peter killed Laura. But Gerard… Derek shudders. 

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop-”

Stiles glares at Gerard, cutting him off.

“Yes you do.”

Gerard raises his shackled hands in what might be a placating gesture if it weren’t coming from a dangerous predator. 

“It seems to me you don’t have all the facts together.” He grins like a grimace. “How do you intend to accomplish this task if you don’t know where to begin?”

Lydia rests her assessing gaze on Argent, one eyebrow cocked just slightly. 

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe you broke in here because you thought you could help.”

Gerard growls.

“I _came_ here to help. I wasn’t going to break in but a certain… scent. Set me off.”

Lydia is about to ask for more when Peter stands up, faster than the humans are able to see. He stands by the bars of his cage, as close as his chains will allow.

“He means his granddaughter.” Peter licks his lips. “The smell made you feral, didn’t it?”

Jackson steps in front of Lydia, and Derek feels himself doing the same for Stiles. Braeden, unconcerned by the sudden tension in the room, cross her arms and settles in to watch. Gerard doesn’t stand up for Peter, but his fingers are twitching minutely with every word.

“I bet it’s killing you to know who she’s giving it up for. Finding out the Argent line is ending in the half human spawn of your sweet girl and some rabid wolf.”

“Wait,” Stiles tries to step forward, and Derek catches him as he hobbles over his injured leg. “Who are you-”

Peter’s lips twist.

“I believe her name was Allison.”

Derek glances at Gerard, tensing to strike. 

Beside them, Scott crosses his arms.

“So what? She’s not-”

“Carrying your whelp, no. But it’s definitely like us, isn’t it? You can smell it Gerard. The last of your precious, pure Argent blood tainted by our kind-”

Scott growls, and Peter cuts himself off, smirking. 

“Do what you like,” he grins. “But a word to the wise: he’s the real monster here.” 

Jackson tries, for the umpteenth time, to talk. What comes out if a garbled, spittle-dampened mess. The teeth leftover from his transformation still haven’t receded, and he hasn’t been able to form coherent words. Stiles grimaces as spit dribbles between his lips, and Lydia wipes it away with the hem of her sleeve almost unthinking. In the back if his mind, Derek recognizes that the pressure in the air is from an incoming thunder storm, that the static he feels and the acid he smells is just rainwater and electricity, a meteorological phenomenon and not an emotional one. But Derek’s chest feels tight, like the air is too warm to breathe, and the smells of earth and the fire keep getting tangled with his memories of old ash and when Stiles grabs his shoulder he feels like he’s paralyzed feels like he’s drowning-

“Derek?”

He shakes his head. Lydia is watching him. He can feel Gerard’s eye son him, feel Peter’s fierce glare directed at everyone and everything and _this_ is why he didn’t visit, didn’t want to come here. He’d thought he could help, but there’s nothing, because this isn’t about him, no matter what Stiles thinks, no matter how the connections seem to be there. He can blame Gerard for a lot of his unhappiness, he can hold Peter accountable for Laura, but he can’t put the end of the world at their feet. 

“I should go.” He looks at Lydia, forces himself to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

She nods, letting him leave. He hears Stiles hobbling after him, and feels a twist of guilt when he starts to move faster, hoping to outpace him. 

“If you really want to know, Derek.” Gerard’s voice stops him, barely. “You’re the only one that can fix everything. Whatever magic was used to make the world the way it is now, it runs in your blood. If you want to undo it, you, and only you, need to use the key.”

“ _No shit_ ,” Derek growls, trying to keep his emotions contained, feeling his teeth pricking the edges of his lips. He tastes blood.

“But they key,” he can practically hear Gerard smiling, “is with your old friend. Deucalion.”

Shaking, Derek leaves. 


	30. Dolorimeter

Stiles is in pain.

His leg is the worst. But his shoulders are bruised, and his stomach is roiling, and his head is thundering, and his jaw is sore where he’s been gritting his teeth. There are very few places on the geography of his body that don’t hurt. But the _look_ on Derek’s face when Gerard spoke to him… Stiles shakes his head and hobbles after Derek, determined to catch up.

“Derek! Wait!”

Derek’s movements are stiff, but he’s moving fast. Stiles is hell-bent on being more stubborn than Derek though. Unless he’s told to piss off and leave him alone, Stiles isn’t prepared to let Derek work out whatever this is on his own. 

So, of course, he trips over his own stupid leg.

Stiles falls hard, yelping as his makeshift cane ends up poking him in the ribs. He chokes a little, spluttering as he spits out the dirt he half-swallowed, half-inhaled. It’s probably not the most attractive he’s ever been. He feels Derek’s hand on his shoulder, and accepts the support while he struggles to stand up. He wipes dust from his sleeves, inspecting the damage.

“You shouldn’t have come running after me Stiles, your leg-”

“My leg is still attached. If you don’t want me to run after you, then _say so_ , or don’t go running off in the first place.”

Derek bristles, keeping his eyes shuttered, refusing to look at Stiles directly. He helps him stand while staring resolutely at the ground.

“What do you want me to do?”

His voice is thin, and Stiles does his best to temper what he’s about to say.

“Tell me you’re not all right. Tell me you need, whatever you need. Space. Room to breathe. A hug. A drink. Tell me you want to wring Gerard Argent’s neck. Tell me whatever it is you’re afraid he’s going to tell me.”

As soon as Stiles can stand on his own, Derek backs away. 

“I’m not afraid.”

Derek’s posture says otherwise, but Stiles keeps it to himself. 

“That’s fine. It’s all fine, Derek-”

“No!” Derek swallows. “None of it’s fine.” He shudders. “Christ, Stiles, he tried to _kill_ you.”

Stiles scoffs.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“What do you want from me!”

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard Derek shout, and the sound of it reverberates through his core. They’re outside, away from everyone, with the wide open sky and fields of open land all around them, and Derek has never looked more caged. Not since Stiles found him on the side of the road and brought him into the ambulance. The whites of his eyes are bright and vivid against Derek’s skin. He’s taking shallow breaths, and it looks like he wants to start pacing, but his feet are rooted to the spot. 

“I don’t want anything from you Derek.” He keeps his voice even, unafraid. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Derek does look up at him, just for a moment, searching for some sign of deceit. Stiles knows he won’t find it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever stop looking. Finally, Derek sighs.

“What do you want to hear, Stiles?”

“Whatever you want to-”

“Do you want to hear about Kate Argent? How she used me? She killed my entire family, and then the world ended and suddenly she had to come all the way to New York to find me. She made me her guard dog and I…” His lips tremble and he takes a shuddering breath. “It’s not nice, Stiles. None of what I have behind me, it’s not worth hearing.”

Stiles reaches for him, not touching, just offering. After a moment, Derek leans into him, and Stiles rubs small circles into his arm with his fingers.

“It’s okay, Derek. All of it. It’s okay.”

Derek shakes his head. 

“I tried to kill her. I couldn’t even do that right.” He closes his eyes. “Gerard sent me to Deucalion because he thought it would kill me.”

Stiles nods.

“Do you think that’s what he’s after this time?”

Derek shakes his head, opening his eyes to look off at the horizon.

“I wish I knew.” It looks, for a moment, like Derek is about to say more, but then he just sighs, tapping Stiles’ cane. “You should be lying down.” He glances behind them. “How did you convince Scott to let you go you alone?”

Stiles flushes.

“I, um. Might have mentioned that Allison would be pissed if he didn’t tell her what was going on. She was pretty sure most of her family died when they abandoned Beacon Hills and our irritatingly tolerant policies about werewolves.”

Derek sighs.

“Let’s get you inside.”


	31. Corruption of Blood

Derek shoulders his pack, waiting for the last of the starlight to fade. There aren’t enough clouds in the sky, but predawn light should be enough to obscure his movements. He can’t let anyone see the direction he’s going in. Once he’s far enough out, the smells of the forest should hide him well enough. He knows how to move quiet when he needs to. 

He can’t let anyone follow him in. 

“You didn’t pack enough food.”

Derek sighs as Allison eases herself down gently, folding her legs underneath her round belly. 

“Are you that sure you’ll be able to hunt, or are you just not planning on making a return trip?”

He crosses his arms, determined not to say anything. 

“Did you know they were alive?”

He purses his lips.

“Derek.”

She doesn’t smell angry, her heart isn’t beating like wild thunder, her voice isn’t dark and deep and stony and sure. There are callouses on her hands, but they’re from reaping and sowing as much as they are from aiming and shooting. She smells like salt water and feathers and saplings and mint tea. 

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

He snarls.

“I’m leaving at first light.”

Allison rolls her eyes.

“Then I’ll follow you.”

He glares at her, but she doesn’t budge. Stubborn. There’s nothing cruel in her, but she is stubborn. She’ll follow him over the wall and into the woods if she has to. He imagines her thundering behind him, cursing and keeping up with him regardless. The thought almost makes him smile. He decides to answer the easiest question.

“I knew Kate. And I knew Gerard. And I knew I wanted to get as far away from them as I could.”

She watches him.

“You thought I was like them?”

“I didn’t want to find out the hard way.”

She winds a lock of hair around her forefinger. 

“Fair enough.” She touches the bag slung over his shoulder, and he winces. “Sorry. I didn’t.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth. I don’t _know_ Gerard. But I knew Kate. And whatever they did to you… I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough. I know it can’t be undone. But I am sorry.”

He glances at her, keeping his eyes downcast.

“You saw him?”

She shakes her head.

“I know what he’s offering. Lydia told me it was my decision. But Scott told me he said something to you anyway.” He can feel her watching him. “Is it enough?”

He bristles.

“Is that why you came here?”

She crosses her arms.

“I’m here because Stiles loves you. He won’t say it, but he does. And because I saw you when he got hurt. I think you’ll do anything to protect him, and right now you think that means taking yourself out of the equation.”

He growls. 

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“I think you’d be doing exactly what Gerard wants you to do.”

He shudders. He doesn’t want to go back to Deucalion, he _doesn’t_. But it could mean a restart. Because Allison was wrong before, there _is_ a way to undo the terrible things that happened. The world went rancid, machines deteriorated, societies crumbled, monsters grew wings, people turned violent. He can fix it. He’s sure of it. Laura told him. All he needs is the key. An ornament and a safeguard. No one else can do it. He can bring back the world, and if all it will cost him is his soul, he’ll pay it. Gladly. 

“Does it matter?”

Allison quirks an eyebrow.

“Not to you maybe.”

“Why do you care?”

She tilts her head.

“About you?” Her heartbeat is sincere. “Do I need a reason?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. 

“Peter killed your aunt.”

Allison closes her eyes.

“And?”

He shrugs, then realizes she can’t see him. 

“And you should blame me. He killed her because of me.”

She opens her eyes again, and her expression is fierce.

“None of that matters now! That’s what nobody seems to understand. You can keep fighting for this old feud, or you can give it up and start caring for the living. I let my family go,” she takes a deep breath in, “a long time ago, because all they wanted was revenge. This is what revenge does.” She spreads her arms out at the landscape, and Derek knows she’s talking about what’s beyond them. Barren deserts where there used to be cities, ghosts of civilization. Death. 

“We might as well have caused this. This is what our code would have gotten us.” Her lips twist in a bitter smile. “I’m proud to have given that up. I’m proud of the life I carry inside me. I protect those I love, and I invest in hope, not hate.” She shakes her head, her smile flickering away until it blossoms into something real, open and honest and without fury. “Sorry. You’re not really the person I want to say all that to.”

He shrugs.

“It’s fine.”

She places a hand on his shoulder, and this time, it doesn’t make him flinch.

“You can’t leave though, Derek. You really can’t. There are too many people here who want to help you, and it sounds like whatever you’re up against is going to be too much for you to handle on your own.”

He shakes his head.

“I can’t wait. Whatever did _this_ ,” he gestures to the gray skyline, where the sun is just beginning to rise. “I can fix this. I might be the only one that can. And now I know where the key is. The longer I wait, every minute I waste… I’m going to lose my nerve. Because I might have to die for this. And it didn’t matter before, but now…” he closes his eyes. “Now it does.”

Allison’s grip on his arm grows firmer, not too tight. It’s comforting.

“It’s all right Derek.”

He looks up at her, shaking away the tremor of shame that accompanies the gesture.

“Why?”

She smiles.

“Because we’re not going to let you die.”

He looks up, hearing the approach of a few sets of feet. Braeden is in the lead, heavy weapons slung over her shoulder. Beside her is a lanky werewolf covered in Allison’s scent, _Isaac_ his memory supplies. He’s carrying Allison’s bow and a quiver full of arrows, in addition to a well-stocked travel pack. With them is a petite kitsune, grinning wide, katana slung around her waist. Allison waves an arm in front of him.

“Come on, help me up.” She grasps his hand, and he pulls her to his feet, as gentle as possible. Allison wipes any traces of dirt from her clothing. “Much better. Thanks.”

He stares at her, then at the others.

“What is this?”

Allison takes her bow from Isaac.

“This is your hunting party. Braeden’s the muscle. Isaac’s a great tracker. Kira’s fast and wily.” She dons her quiver. “And I’m going to shoot anything nasty long before we need any of those skills.”

Derek shakes his head.

“I can’t ask for this.”

“You didn’t.” Isaac is smirking, but his teeth are poking through the corners of his lips. “We volunteered.”

“I’ve been trying to find a way to fix what happened for years. I spent the last six months wandering around trying to find a kanima, of all things.” Kira, arms crossed, steps forward. “And now I find out you just wandered in here with the answer. I’m definitely coming with you.”

Braeden shrugs.

“I’m just coming along to make sure none of you idiots get hurt. Or bring down the wrath of the Leanwulf on Beacon Hills.”

Allison grasps Derek’s hand.

“I told you. We’re here. We believe you. And we want to help.”

He takes a deep breath. Their scents are safe. Their hearts are beating strong and sure, nothing resembling a lie falling between them. He looks at Allison, watching him, not wary, just kind.

“Do you want to go back and say goodbye?”

Derek grits his teeth.

“If I go back, I’m never going to leave.”

Isaac hands him the extra pack. Allison nods.

“Let’s go then.”

 


	32. VIRTUE, LIBERTY, and INDEPENDENCE

Years ago, in what used to be Pennsylvania, Derek tries to clear away the grit underneath his fingers. He’s been rubbing his hands for over an hour, but even in the bright sunlight they look stained and ruined. He forces himself to breathe, closing his eyes, counting the spaces between each breath. In _one two three_ … Out _one two three…_ In. He holds it. 

He can hear Kate breathing. She’s sleeping. She’s so sure, _so sure_ that she’s safe with him there. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He can dream all he wants about ending her. About making her scream. He always shakes himself, wakes himself up, before those dreams end. He can’t kill her, even in his dreams. 

His arms shake. He can’t run, either. No matter how much he wants to. She’s right about him, always has been. He belongs to her. He’s better off with her, safer with her. Even after everything she’s done (and what was it, exactly, that she had done? He remembers a fire, and screaming, and agony, but he can’t see details, his memory is blurred and congested and he can’t quite put it all together). He knows, in his bones, he should _hate_ her, but the reasons why have all been swallowed up. She cares for him, he knows it. She wouldn’t be so tender with him if she didn’t care. 

He recoils from the thought. He doesn’t like to dwell on her tenderness. 

He begins counting. He doesn't remember why he knows this helps him, but it comes to him, and he knows this is not the first time. It's a bone-memory, counting. He numbers the knives (fourteen, plus three for food), lists the exits (four), calculates the number of hours until sunset (six). They have a lot of wolfsbane, and not much left to eat, but there's a flicker in the back of his mind that tells him these are things Kate has told him not to worry about, not to think about. Keep counting. One cot. Two cooking pots. Enough clean water to last for a few days. One empty water bottle. He still has all of his limbs. He still has ten toes, ten fingers.

His hands still feel dirty. Like there’s grunge he can’t quite see buried in the creases of his palms. Dark and bloody, it smells like kin. 

He shudders, and tries to stop himself. He can’t close his eyes anymore, he sees too many faces, not feral, not dangerous, familiar. He remembers the sensation of electricity coursing through him, contorting his senses, warping everything around him until he has to fight, or die. He tries not to whimper. 

The water runs cold, but he doesn’t care.

This is a good hideout, he forces himself to think. There's still running water, and it's not rusty, and sometimes it's even hot. He doesn't remember getting here, only electricity, but his muscles tell him it's been a while since they've been able to rest. There aren't any other people around. Only ghosts. 

This might have been a town hall, before the roof was torn away and steamy, wild storms turned the city into a jungle. The sounds the leaves make are hushed and slow, the still sounds of growing things. The world that surrounds them is green. It must have been difficult to find this place, buried in a verdant maze. His feet feel like they've been traveling, and the broken tiles beneath him are strange. His body is not accustomed to brick and mortar walls surrounding it, and even without a ceiling above his head, this place feels foreign. It's safe here. He wonders where  _here_ is.

He wants to ask her what he can’t remember, but he’s afraid of the answer. 

He can smell the others on his hands. Victims. That’s what they are, that’s the word for them. People like him, no, _werewolves_ , captured and tortured, and he knows it’s all his fault, knows Kate wouldn’t have been able to do it all by herself. He remembers the electricity more than anything, making his memories fade, making him forget, making him sleep and he knows his body’s been used while he was sleeping. He wakes up with muscles sore, with the taste of blood underneath his tongue, with scratches and itches where injuries should be healing, but no memory of ever being cut. He can’t clean away the stench of adrenaline and fear where it rests on his skin, like a permanent tattoo burned into his veins. 

He knows he should hate her, but his senses tell him he’s a murderer. 

“Derek,” she snaps, and when did she wake up? “Come here.”

He kneels by her bed, and does as he’s told. And she’s tender. Later, he remembers electricity, and that’s all he remembers. 

 


	33. Marooned

“What do you mean they’re _gone_ ,” Stiles struggles against Melissa, shaking his finger at Scott, trying to look as threatening as possible. “And you just _let_ them?!”

Scott shrugs.

“Allison can be very intimidating.”

“Stiles will you _sit down_!”

Stiles allows Melissa to wrangle him back onto the bed, choking back a whimper as he moves his injured leg. 

“But he- ouch!” Melissa glares at him, rearranging the pillows with less than her usual gentleness.

“You’ll heal faster if you calm down.”

He grimaces.

“You should have told me. I would have-”

“Tried to go with them?” Melissa quirks her brows. “Even though you can barely walk.”

Stiles crosses his arms.

“I would have tried to _stop_ them. It’s a terrible idea.” He glares at Scott. “ _You_ should have tried to stop them, or gone after them.” Scott looks wary, and Stiles presses. “Scott. Why aren’t you going after them?”

Melissa stands, patting Scott’s shoulder as she rises.

“I’ll go check on Jackson.”

Scott sighs as she leaves. Struggling, Stiles tries to scoot closer.

“Scott. What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

Scott’s jaw works, and he glances over Stiles’ shoulder. Following his line of sight, Stiles sees Lydia leaning over Jackson, stroking his skin. There are jagged, deep scars covering his torso where the green scales have receded. His eyes flash blue in the guttering light. His teeth are still serpentine, limiting his speech to wordless whispers. Lydia has the spell book open in her lap, and but she's not reading. 

Beyond, Stiles can see his cabin is full. There are soldiers and stewards alike with burns and gashes, most of them are worse off than he is. He hopes Melissa and the others were able to sort through his supplies and find everything they needed. 

When Stiles turns back around, Scott’s face is open and sad.

“She asked you to stay behind?”

Scott nods.

“I don’t like it. I want to be with Allison and Isaac. I hate thinking that they’re out there, going somewhere dangerous, and I’m not there. But Braeden and Kira are with them. And after the fire…” Scott shakes his head, sighing. “So many people are still too injured to fight. If something happens here...” He chews on his lip. “I needed to stay.”

Stiles nods.

“Did you at least get to say goodbye?”

Scott rubs his hands.

“Allison told me to keep the fire warm, and a kettle ready for tea. Isaac was more direct.” His jaw works itself into a begrudging smile. “He said I have to keep everyone here alive and well, and that if I screw up or die trying he’ll kill me. Or something like that.” Scott looks up at him. “I love them, Stiles.”

Stiles nods, sucking in his cheeks. 

“They’re coming back.”

Scott grasps his hand, and Stiles grips it back, hard, too hard for a human to endure without complaint. But Scott is a werewolf. He’ll suffer quietly. 

“He should have said goodbye.”

Scott squeezes back, his grip far more gentle.

“You can tell him what an ass he is when he gets back.”

Behind them, Lydia claps her hands, and Stiles turns around just in time to catch a glimpse of her smile as she throws her arms around Jackson’s neck. A glance at Scott shows that he’s just as confused as to what’s going on. Stiles sits up a little straighter, and beside him, Scott stands.

“Lydia?”

She grins at them both, tossing her red hair over her shoulder.

“The spell!” She claps her hands. “It worked! He can talk!”

* * *

The cells are quiet in the predawn light.

There are guards. _Outside. Not watching, not close enough_. And the bars are coated with wolfsbane, as are the handcuffs around their wrists. _Inconvenient_. And the circle of mountain ash is going to be an interesting obstacle. _Not enough_. 

Gerard drops the shackles on the ground the minute he hears his granddaughter’s heartbeat receding. 

In the cell a few yards away, Peter is watching. His eyes glow red. 

“Planning a great escape, are we?”

Gerard chuckles.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Peter straightens, the shackles around his feet clattering. 

“You sent him back to Deucalion.”

Gerard tests the bars, not wincing as the wolfsbane burns his fingers.

“I did.”

Peter lens closer, as close as he can in his bonds.

“But the key isn’t there.”

Gerard shrugs.

“It doesn’t matter. Derek is only necessary to revert the world to the way it was. And neither of us want that.”

Peter growls, deep and guttural. Gerard chuckles.

“No. I know the key is here. I’ll use it do do what needs to be done.” He flexes. “I’ll tear this world apart if I have to.”

Peter stands, or tries to, but his chains are short and tangle around his ankles. He stumbles back down with an echoing clatter.

“No!” He seethes. “I built this world! It’s _mine_.” He snarls. “ _You_ can’t have it!”

Gerard watches, unmoved.

“I’ll take it, whether you like it or not.”


	34. Brotherhood

He feels more tired than he should. They all slept for a few hours, posting a guard and taking shifts. It’s not exhaustion that’s eating away at him, it’s something else. 

The loamy topsoil is soft beneath his boots. The forest it still. No wild animals, no wind. Every living thing within fifty miles of Deucalion’s prison knows well enough to steer clear. Derek takes deep, gulping breaths, reminding himself that there’s plenty of oxygen in the woods, that he’s still breathing. He keeps glancing at the sunlight sneaking in through the trees, dappling the lower branches with warmth. Air. Light. 

He hums, quiet enough that he won’t disturb the others. He smiles when he realizes the tune is the same one he and Stiles played in the car on the way back from the bank. It’s tied up in his memories of Laura, too. Her arms around him, strong and safe. 

The wind changes, carrying with it the scent of oil and metal. He shudders. 

“Derek?”

He shakes his head at Isaac.

“It’s nothing.”

Isaac shrugs.

“You’re pale.”

Derek grits his teeth, but Isaac cuts him off before he can retort.

“It’s the scent. I know.” He looks over his shoulder at Allison and Braeden, clearing away the remainder of their camp. “It’s not the same for them. They’re both good hunters, but the petroleum doesn’t smell like acid and burning skin. It just smells like petroleum to them.” Isaac pulls his coat tighter around himself. “They can’t smell fear.”

Derek watches him, warily, but Isaac is looking at the horizon.

“You’re not-”

“Different work camp. Same idea.” Isaac rolls up one of his sleeves. There are jagged cuts on his wrists, long-since healed, but Derek can sense the wolfsbane in the injuries. 

“It’s been years. The scars still hurt.” His jaw is tight, even though his tone is lighthearted. “Works on all the ladies though.”

Derek doesn’t laugh. 

Braeden looks up at them, shouldering one of their packs.

“Ready?”

Derek looks around.

“Is Kira back yet?”

“She’s going to meet us up ahead.” Allison looks at ease in her surroundings, quiver hovering above her shoulder. “I thought it would be a good idea to send a scout, now that we’re so close. And foxes are known for their stealth.”

Isaac smiles at her.

“I could take that bag for you if-”

“You absolutely will not.” She crosses her arms. “You and Derek are already carrying the heaviest things.

Isaac opens his arms.

“I have werewolf strength.”

“And I have all the mountain ash.” She swats his hand away. “I can take care of myself.”

Derek hears the rattle before he notices the smell. Like wet leaves, soured water, snake venom and sand, he cringes. Isaac notices too, but he doesn’t put it together as quickly. Derek struggles against the ice water in his veins, against the sirens behind his eyes. He remembers to breathe. Allison draws her bow, and Braeden is already armed. 

“Derek?” Isaac reaches, but doesn’t touch him. “What is it?”

“Berserkers.”

Isaac lets loose his claws, positioning himself beside Allison. 

“Bad news?”

“Is it ever good news?” Braeden glances out at the forest. “Derek, you gonna be okay?”

He nods, and knows she sees him out of the corner of her eye, never breaking away from her defensive position. The four draw into a tight circle, watching, waiting. Allison sees one first, letting loose an arrow. Derek hears it hit its mark, but the beast doesn’t stop. Another comes crashing through the trees, coming from the opposite direction. 

Derek howls as the berserker aims to strike. He ducks low, tearing at it with his claws as Braeden aims high, catching a glancing blow off it’s skull. He sword flashes in the sunlight as she strikes again. 

Behind them, Isaac is snarling, darting back and forth while Allison aims unerringly for the berserker’s heart. It thrashes, but every time it comes close to her, Isaac slashes with his claws, forcing it to defend itself while Allison continues to shoot. One of her arrows catches fire midair, striking the berserker’s chest. It ignites, roaring. 

Braeden stabs their berserker in the heart, and it bears down on the blade, snarling behind the mask. Derek leaps for it, tearing at the skull It grunts, leaning backwards, and Derek goes with it, swinging in its clutches. Braeden lets go of her sword, unsheathing another in one fluid movement. The berserker goes down, claws scoring Derek’s skin. Derek struggles to stand while Braeden slashes at the recovering berserker. It roars, bones rattling. 

“Derek!” Braeden shouts, deflecting a well-aimed blow. “How do we kill these things?”

His reply is cut off by another roar. Derek braces himself for the blow. 


	35. The ground beneath my feet is open wide

Stiles really, really wishes his leg wasn’t injured. He’d love to get up and walk away, leaving Lydia and Jackson to have their argument in private. Unfortunately, there’s no surreptitious way to hobble out of the room. 

“Jackson, you’re sure?”

“I’m sure I’m going to _kill_ him,” he snarls. “They _used_ me. They kept me locked up when they didn’t need me. I spent _years_ waiting to kill him.” He glowers at Lydia. “I’m going to do it.”

Lydia shudders. Scott stands warily, watching their argument. They both seem oblivious. 

“Jackson. Listen.” She puts a hand on his forehead. “You’re still recovering. Everything else will come to you.”

He swats her hand away.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember anything _useful_. I didn’t ask you to waste all your time and resources finding me.”

Lydia winces.

“That’s not what the issue is.” She looks up at him. “I just want you to be okay.”

He nods.

“Sure. Just as soon as I wipe all the memories of the last couple years away. Which I will do. Just as soon as I kill that fucking slave driver.”

He hoists himself out of bed despite Lydia’s protestations. Scott stands, not quite blocking his path.

“Jackson, wait. You looked pretty rough when they brought you in. Maybe you should-”

Jackson snarls. “Get out of my _way_.”

Scott puts up his hands, but Lydia’s recovered enough to stand in front of the door, hands on her hips. 

“Jackson I don’t know who you think you’re going to throttle first, but at the very least you need to put a shirt on and then maybe _listen to me_ while I tell you why I’d rather you didn’t.”

Jackson’s glare is fierce, but it’s not enough to deter Stiles from piping up.

“There’s a sweater in the cabinet to your left.”

Beside him, Scott groans. 

“Jackson.” Lydia crosses her arms. “You’re definitely entitled to the first shot at disemboweling the people that kidnapped you. But there’s a chance they might _know_ something. Can you at least give us a chance to figure out _what_ before you go on a rampage?!”

Jackson snarls, but his posture loosens.

“I can do better than that.” His jaw is tight. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I can drag the memories out of him.”

Stiles and Scott share a glance.

“It would speed things up.” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “And we need answers. Like, yesterday.”

Scott’s shaking his head.

“It’s not right. Having your memories taken from you like that. It _hurts_. And it’s dangerous.” He looks up at Jackson. “And not just for the person giving their memories.”

Jackson glares at all of them.

“I’ve made it this far. I’m not backing down now.”

 

* * *

Derek’s sense of smell comes back first.

They’re moving, his body is swaying on the hard floor he’s lying on. Harder than wood, but softer than stone. Steel, maybe. It feels like rubber underneath his fingers. It _feels_ like the back of a storage truck. He wishes that surprised him. 

He lets himself regain consciousness slowly, fighting his body’s impulse to run, to fight, to lash out at the closest living thing. He tries to breathe, and finds that he still can. An inventory of his injuries reveal that he’s not going to die. His ribcage is bruised but it’s healing clean. He’s lost a lot of blood, and there’s a sharp pain in the back of his skull- probably a fracture. That explains the dizziness, and the flickering lights at the edge of his vision, even with his eyes shut. He swallows, trying to parse through the myriad signals his senses are picking up on.

There are other people breathing. They smell injured. Adrenaline. Cortisol. Epinephrine. Derek remembers the words, but the smells are more acute. Acid and bilious. The smells taste like sharp steel on his tongue. 

He tries to put together names, eyes shut tight. 

Allison. She smells like milk and honey underneath the sourness of pain. Isaac is near her, and Derek can sense him rousing, his instincts honed to protectiveness. Braeden is somewhere to Derek’s left, her scent is like peppercorn and... 

Kira’s not with them. 

Derek licks his lips as he opens his eyes. There’s almost no light, but everyone is exactly as beat up as he smelled. 

Across from him, Isaac’s awake, eyes bright, glowing blue. He searches for Allison first, reaching for her with trembling arms. She sighs as he rouses her, shaking wooziness from her head. 

“Allison,” he rasps, “are you, did they-”

She grabs his hand, gripping tight.

“I’m fine. We’re both fine.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Derek?”

He tries to sit up. Weak. He feels so weak. 

“Wolfsbane. They’re not taking any chances with us. Try to keep moving,” he motions to Isaac, making a fist and releasing it. “It helps. Makes it go through your system faster.”

Isaac does, grimacing.

“It hurts.”

Derek grits his teeth. Allison begins checking for weapons, coming up empty. Braeden’s rustling beside him, sitting up. She stifles a groan as she moves her shoulder, and Derek hears one of her joints popping back into place. 

“So. We’re not dead. What does that mean?”

They all look to Derek. He shakes his head.

“I wish I knew.”

Despite her injuries, Allison’s eyes are bright.

“What can we expect when they bring us in?”

Derek glances at Isaac. His expression is severe, and lines around his eyes that weren’t there that morning are cast in sharp relief in the stark gloom. Allison watches their wordless exchange.

“That bad.”

Braeden crosses her arms.

“Probably worse.”

Derek can only nod. Isaac leans back, one hand resting on Allison’s arm, stroking her skin.

“Let’s hope that whatever Deucalion wants is enough to trade on.”

Braeden rolls her eyes.

“Kira’s still out there. They won’t find her until she wants to be found.” She quirks a brow at Isaac. “Right now, I like her odds better than ours.”

Derek glances at her.

“Do you think she’ll go back and get help?”

Braeden shrugs.

“That would be the _smart_ thing to do. It’s what I’ve told her to do.” She shakes her head. “Do I think she’ll actually _do_ it? Nah. But this is sort of what we wanted anyway, right? Instead of breaking into Deucalion’s fortress, we’re being brought right to him. The trick will be getting out.” She stretches, but Derek can taste the fear behind her nonchalance. “Might as well enjoy the trip.”

Derek closes his eyes, trying to absorb the feeling of the bumpy road. In the back of his head, the last memory of a jostling drive comes to him, the tune of an old song jogging his memory. He doesn’t smile, but he lets the recollection of Stiles, singing merrily at the wheel, comfort him. The memory of Laura, packing her bag, strains of music in the background. She’d gone to London. 

He opens his eyes. 


	36. held up

Danny sees them coming.

Jackson is in the lead, followed closely by Lydia, struggling to keep up with his wide, angry stride. Scott supports Stiles, who leans on him and his cane with equal measure and irritation. Stiles lets out a frustrated huff, watching Lydia speaking to Danny in hushed tones.

“You didn’t have to come,” Scott shakes his head. “In fact. You really, _really_ , shouldn’t be here right now. I think Jackson’s going to tear somebody’s head off.”

Stiles snorts.

“You think I’d _miss_ that?”

Scott rolls his eyes.

“Just chill dude. No heroics.”

Stiles fumbles with his cane.

“I make no promises.”

Scott groans.

“My mom is gonna _kill_ me.”

They catch up to Jackson and Lydia just as Danny’s conceded. Stiles waves at him, plastering on a fake smirk.

“Hey Danny. Miss me?”

Danny stares straight through him.

“Nope.”

Scott coughs, covering up a laugh. Danny leaves to get the prisoner, and Scott elbows him as soon as Danny’s out of earshot.

“I guess he’s still mad, huh?”

“Shut up Scott.”

Jackson glances between Stiles and Scott.

“What.”

Lydia groans.

“Trust me. It’s really, _really_ not important.” Jackson looks incredulous, and Lydia crosses her arms. “Jackson, of all the things you missed, Stiles and Danny failing at being ‘a thing’ is probably at the top of the list of shit you’ll be glad you weren’t here for.” She glares at Stiles. “And the pitiful groaning in the aftermath is probably a close second.”

Stiles pouts, but Danny returns before he can retort, a sheepish-looking prisoner in tow. He’s short, not strong-looking, but Stiles knows appearances can be deceiving. His mousy brown hair is a mess of tangles and curls, and there’s a swelling bruise across his cheek that looks an awful lot like Braeden’s handiwork. Danny handles hum gruffly, watching Jackson, waiting for his reaction. Danny still wears the same forbidding look of determination he’d donned when he left to find Jackson. Stiles remembers thinking that, if the same thing had happened to Scott, he would have booked a first-class ticket to hell to bring him back. He wonders if that’s what Danny did. He hasn’t had the time to ask. 

“Are you… are you going to kill me?”

Jackson’s about to speak, but cuts himself off in deference to Lydia.

“We have some questions for you.”

The prisoner shudders. 

“Whatever you want. I’ll tell you. Just please, don’t kill me.”

Jackson growls, and the prisoner shudders. Stiles can’t help but feel a little satisfied at the sight. 

Lydia ignores him, staring at the prisoner.

“Do you think you know something useful?”

He nods, head bobbing with enough vigorous force to make his matted hair shake. Lydia seems to accept his answer.

“Fine. You name?”

“Matt. Daehler.”

Stiles glances at Scott, who is concentrating intently on the prisoner’s heartbeat. He shrugs with more subtlety than Stiles would have given him credit for. Not a lie then, but not enough to establish a baseline, either. 

“Why did you come to Beacon Hills?”

Matt shrugs.

“Orders. We were told to attack Derek Hale. We followed his trail here.”

Lydia blinks.

“Why.”

Matt looks at each of them in turn, but all he gets in response is another snarl form Jackson. He cringes.

“The Leanwulf knew he was looking for a key! Something with a lot of power. And he didn’t want him to get it. I was supposed to keep him from finding whatever it was.”

Stiles feels his gut harden. He glances at Scott, but he doesn’t need confirmation to know they’re in trouble.

“The Leanwulf doesn’t have the key? You’re sure?”

Matt nods.

“Definitely. Why else would he send me here for just one rogue werewolf?” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like there’s a decent lay this close to the coast.”

Lydia’s eyebrow twitches.

“That’s all you know?”

Matt shrugs.

“About Deucalion or getting laid?”

Lydia turns to Jackson.

“You can punch him now.”

Jackson grins, cracking his knuckles.

Stiles feels a hand on his shoulder, but he can’t move. Lydia’s voice is somewhere behind him, issuing orders, trying to find the most efficient way to get a message to Derek and the others. Danny takes Matt away, and Stiles can hear the command like it’s coming from a distance. Stiles glances up at Scott, and sees reflected the same worries and fears. Allison and Isaac, Braeden and Kira, they’re all headed for a trap. And Derek… Stiles closes his eyes. He can’t even begin to imagine what Derek’s gone back to. All for nothing. 

All for a lie.

“…going to find them, Stiles, it’s going to be okay-”

Stiles cuts Lydia off, grasping her wrist with a snarl.

“I am going to _kill_ Gerard Argent.”

There’s a menacing chuckle behind him.

“Better men than you have tried.”

 


	37. Decus et Tutamen

The ride ends too quickly. They’re ushered out of the back of the truck at the point of guns and blades, too many armed guards around them to wage a sufficient escape. Derek can smell the mountain ash penning them in throughout the complex. It won’t keep the humans in, but the shackles placed on all their wrists and ankles will do just as well. He shudders as they’re ushered inside the circle’s domain; he can feel it being closed up behind him, the buzz of magic commingling with the electronic hum of the lights overhead.

Trapped inside the boundary, he goes where the guards outside it steer him. He sees Isaac glancing at the cattle prods at the guards’ waists. Fortunately, he thinks better of testing them out. Instead, Isaac offers a hand to Allison, whose chains are dragging around her feet, made for a taller person. The corridor reeks of sweat and blood and bile. The air is so thick with the smells of misery Derek can feel himself choking on it. The back of his neck tingles. His eyes water. He keeps forgetting to breathe.

He feels Braeden beside him, the warmth of her shoulder as she brushes against his skin. It helps.

They’re led to a wide open room. Deucalion is standing outside the line of mountain ash, cane held loosely in his hand. His eyes are covered with a scarlet sash, but Derek can still feel himself being examined. His throat is closed tight when he tries to swallow. He grits his teeth to keep himself from trembling. 

“Derek.” The cane clicks on the floor, a subtly impatient gesture. “The last time we spoke, you mentioned you never wished to see me again. Has something changed?”

Derek forces out a “no” from between tightly clamped jaws. 

Deucalion cocks his head to the side.

“Then tell me. To what do I owe this pleasure? Surely you knew you were trespassing on my territory.”

Derek steps forward, toes just inches away from the magical barrier. He squares his shoulders, bracing himself to look Deucalion square in the face.

“I knew.”

Unperturbed, Deucalion’s lips twitch.

“Did you?”

A few guards place their hands on their belts, hands braced around the handles of their weapons. Derek can feel Isaac behind him, growing tense. 

“I saw an old friend of yours recently. Gerard Argent.”

Deucalion’s expression sours.

“I would not name Gerard Argent a _friend_. He’s an abomination. He will always be an enemy to our kind.”

Derek nods, not disagreeing. “An old enemy then. He told me you have what I’m looking for.”

Deucalion’s brow quirks. Derek braces himself.

“That is interesting.” Deucalion adjusts his grip on his cane. “Why do you think he told you that?”

Derek grits his teeth.

“Because he wants me dead.”

“And he felt that I would oblige.” Deucalion spreads his hands. “Why come then? Unless you don’t know where it is.”

He feels Braeden beside him, fingers twitching for the weapons taken from her.

“Derek?”

He shakes his head.

“I know where the key is. I figured it out on the way over.”

“Ah. And you think you’ll be able to bargain for your lives with that information.” Deucalion tuts. “But why would I need the key to transform the world back into its original state? I am powerful.” His jaw twitches, jowls extending. “I have _everything_ in the palm of my hand. Even the Argents are afraid of me now.”

Allison squares her shoulders.

“Not all of us.”

Deucalion laughs.

“Oh Derek. You must really be desperate if this is the company you keep. I’m pleased to be the one to end the Argent line.”

Isaac growls deep in his chest.

“You won’t get the chance.”

Allison touches Isaac’s shoulder, chains rattling around her wrist.

“You could have had us killed. You didn’t need to see us. There is something you want us for. So, you can keep trying to scare us all day, but you might as well just tell us what you really want.”

Deucalion steps carefully around the circle of mountain ash, surveying Allison from behind the red sash across his eyes. She stands her ground. 

“Clever. Very well, I concede, I’m not prone to destroying weapons when they fall into my hand. I need you for something… special.”

“He wants Beacon Hills. Ugh.” Braeden groans, practically seething boredom. “I bet he thinks he’s gonna brainwash us and send us back there to tear it down from the inside out.”

Derek feels Deucalion’s focus shift onto Braeden.

“Does the idea amuse you?”

She shrugs.

“Kind of actually. Derek here got us all worked up over the big, scary slave driver out here, but I’m not very impressed.” She shrugs. “I wonder what happens when someone turns out the lights?”

As if on cue, the power sputters, then dies. The blackout is immediately followed by sparks of electricity as the cattle prods the guards wear explode to life, shocking their owners. The stench of seared flesh hits Derek’s nostrils, and he seethes as he feels his claws protruding, his teeth tearing at the corners of his mouth. He can hear Deucalion roaring somewhere too close, and in the burning flashes of light he sees Allison crouching, spreading the mountain ash on the floor, breaking the circle with a deft flick of her wrists. 

Beside her, Isaac is already slashing at the uninjured guards. The Berserkers charge, bones rattling. Braeden is using her chains to throttle the ones behind them. Kira appears in the darkness, sparks flying around her fingertips as she blocks a low blow aimed at Braeden’s blind spot. 

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring any backup?” Is the only thanks she offers.

“Doesn’t seem like we’ll need it,” Kira tosses Braeden a cocky grin in response, blowing her a kiss as she dodges another attack. 

Derek hears Deucalion snarling, and flexes his claws. He spins, trying to strike first, but Deucalion is _fast_ , and ducks out of the way before Derek can tear at his flesh. Crouching low, he avoids a guard as he crashes to the floor, narrowly avoiding Deucalion’s strike as he’s caught off-balance. 

“You’ll have to be faster, Derek.”

Derek aims for Deucalion’s chest, wrist turning in the last instant. His claws scrape against Deucalion’s neck, blood seeping between his fingers. Deucalion howls, even as the injury heals at an accelerated rate. He swings his cane at Derek’s knees, and Derek barely jumps away in time. There’s a clatter to Derek’s left as Allison gets her hands on the guards’ discarded weapons, heavy knives spinning a deadly arc in her delicate hands. Isaac is tossing explosives, landing a direct hit in one of the Berserkers chest cavities. Derek doesn’t have time to watch them as Deucalion’s claws swoop through the air, cutting through the space where Derek’s head was just a second before he dove. Scattered debris on the floor ignites as the two werewolves circle each other, gnashing their teeth as their talons grow bloodier with each successful swipe. 

“I’ll gut you, Hale!”

Deucalion lunges for him, and they stagger to the floor, snarling. Derek slashes at Deucalion’s shoulder, tearing away fabric and skin alike in a bloody, tangled mess. He scrambles to his feet as Deucalion attacks again, and Derek trades his defensive slashes for offensive blows, backing Deucalion into a corner, away from the others. 

Derek’s lucky more often than he’s not. And as the guards fall, Deucalion seems less apt to heal from the blows, while Derek’s injuries feel superficial. 

“It’s his pack!” Isaac shouts out from the fray. “He’s weaker without his pack.”

And Derek only feels stronger. They grapple, and Deucalion backs away further. Derek’s claws drag across his torso as he steps back, and Deucalion’s bellowing cry echoes through the rafters. 

“Damn you, I’ll-”

Derek never finds out. Deucalion is cut off by a knife thrown from behind Derek. He turns to see Allison, surrounded by corpses, not a scratch on her. She tosses him a minute nod. Coughing, Deucalion staggers, and his back hits the wall. Blood trickles through his fingers where he clutches the dagger, yanking it out with a grunt. It clatters to the floor. Derek can smell his pain, the stench of it filling him up like a bilious cloud of smoke. 

Decualion’s expression twists into a crooked smile.

“Well Derek? Don’t you want to make me hurt more?”

Derek grimaces.

“I’m nothing like you.”

Deucalion smirks.

“You’re a broken, twisted, used-up thing. You think you’re better than me?”

Derek’s skin crawls, and his muscles flex without any prompting. 

“Derek,” Braeden is standing somewhere nearby. “He could have information, don’t give him what he wants.”

“Sure. Listen to her. Take the coward’s way out.” Deucalion hisses, blood frothing as it trickles from between his teeth. “That’s what you are. Too much of a coward to stand up to Kate Argent, her sad little kept bodyguard. You tried to get someone else to do the dirty work for you. You betrayed your kind.” He snarls. “Over and over and over again. Haven’t you learned by now there’s no room for cowardice in the world your uncle created?”

Derek feels his breath go silent. His mouth tastes like ash. The sounds in the room go still. He doesn’t feel himself tearing Deucalion to pieces, doesn’t hear the others shouting at him, the surrender of Deucalion’s last minions, doesn’t feel another layer of blood coating his hands. His heartbeat stutters. He feels cold. When his eyesight clears, Allison is standing in front of him, her cheeks flushed.

“Derek!”

He swallows. He looks down at the floor, the massacre he’s laid at his feet. 

“I had to.”

Allison rubs his arms, but it’s Isaac’s gaze he meets, glassy-eyed as he stands by his shoulder.

“I know you did,” she’s murmuring. “I know you did.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My RL is going bananas right now so this chapter is getting posted early. Happy Thanksgiving.


	38. Bad and Worse

Stiles braces himself for a strike that never comes. Scott steps in front of him, blocking Gerard’s attack. Stiles stumbles over his crutch, falling in a cumbersome pile of flailing limbs on the ground. He fumbles into a crouch, watching Scott as he and Gerard circle each other, eyes glowing, claws extended. 

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Scott.” His eyes flicker, red and bright. “You’ve never killed anyone before.”

Scott glares, his voice deep behind his fangs.

“We don’t kill people here.”

Gerard snarls.

“Then you’re not going to survive.”

They dive at each other, growling. Gerard gnashes at Scott’s throat, tearing at his hands with powerful claws as Scott struggles to stand his ground. Stiles yelps, but Jackson’s already jumping into the fray, his skin shimmering and shifting in the sunlight as scales begin to ripple and his fangs extend from between his lips. Lydia crouches beside Stiles, grasping his shoulder, too hard.

“We need to get you away from here,” she rasps into his ear. Stiles lets her help him to his feet, but he’s not going anywhere. 

“Scott!” He shouts, wobbling on his injured leg as his friend is sent tumbling into the dirt. Scott rolls, and comes back up snarling, while Jackson exchanges blows with Gerard. 

“Stiles, stay back!” Scott stands, ignoring the deep gouge scoring his chest as he tries to help Jackson. Their movements are uncoordinated, and Gerard, though outnumbered, is stronger than both of them. Jackson and Scott attack from both sides, but none of their blows seem to do any lasting damage. Gerard is moving so much faster, snarling with every strike. 

“Stiles,” Lydia tugs at him. “Please, come on!”

He swats at her, fumbling through his pockets, looking for something, anything that might be of use. His fingers tremble, useless. He’s not armed. Even if he was, he doesn’t know how to use a weapon. He’s a doctor. He’s a half-rate, untrained doctor at the end of the world, the last-ditch effort after the collapse of modern medicine. His friends are going to die. Gerard is going to kill Scott, and Jackson, and probably Lydia too. And he’s sent Derek out to die, too. Derek, and Braeden and Isaac and Kira and…

And.

“Gerard!”

Lydia tries to put herself in front of him, and the fighting doesn’t stop, but he knows he has Gerard’s attention. The violent red eyes flicker, watching him, and the creates in his brows fold and change with minute significance. Stiles knows he doesn’t have long. He needs to make these next seconds count. 

“You sent Derek away to die, didn’t you?”

Gerard chuckles as a ducks away from Jackson’s claws. 

“Now why would I do something like that?”

Stiles hobbles forward don his cane.

“I think whatever’s happened, you want to do it again.” Lydia watches him, calculating. “I think you needed to get rid of Derek because he has the power to change everything back. He’s probably got the power to stop you, too.”

Scott lands a glancing blow against Gerard’s torso, and is thrown backwards for his trouble. Jackson stands between them and Gerard, but he’s breathing heavily, and his left arm is hanging limp and mangled at his side. 

“That sounds like a very clever plan.” Gerard cocks his head. “And do you think you and your weak little friends are going to be able to stop me?”

Stiles grins, but it feels like a grimace.

“I think you’re going to change your mind when you find out that Allison went with Derek.”

Gerard’s expression turns stony, and Stiles hears howling in the distance, and hopes for just a second that Derek didn’t really leave, that he’s here and safe. But then a slender, gray werewolf pounces on Gerard, tearing at him with sharp, white teeth. Gerard rolls, tossing his new opponent off. The werewolf stands, shaking, and Peter Hale’s face is a rictus of anger beneath the hairy features. He cracks his neck, glaring at Gerard. 

“Mr. Hale,” Gerard rasps. “There’s been a change in my itinerary. I need you to get out of the way.”

Peter’s lips twitch dangerously above his elongated jowls. 

“People tell me that a lot.” He grunts. “I’m not a very good listener.”

Gerard growls, but Peter attacks first, swiping at Gerard’s jugular with superhuman speed. Gerard hisses, rebuffing Peter’s attack with ease. Gerard focuses his replying assault on Peter’s abdomen, tearing at him with claws and fists. His movements are slower, but they’re more precise than Peter’s quick, erratic bursts, and Stiles quickly loses track of the number of blows they inflict on one another. The details of the fight are too blurred for the human eye to see. When Peter stumbles backwards, bent over and clutching his stomach to staunch the blood flowing from a deep gouge, Stiles is surprised to see the extent of the damage. Both men are bloody and battered, and their hands are coated in dark red stains. 

“I’m going to tear you apart,” Peter’s voice rumbles.

Gerard cracks his knuckles.

“You and I both know you can’t.”

Grimacing, Peter straightens. 

“Then I’ll erase you.”

Gerard grins.

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

Peter snarls.

“Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work.” He shakes his head, bellowing. “You’ll have to kill me to rebuild the universe in your image!”

Gerard rolls his shoulders, dark fur bristling around his neck.

“It will be my pleasure.”

Scott steps forward, barring Gerard’s path.

“No.” His hands curl into fists, as he looks between Peter and Gerard. “That’s not how we do things here.”

Gerard scoffs.

“How’s that working out for you so far, kid?” Peter glares. “You’ve got the bite. You’re a monster, just like us.”

Scott shakes his head.

“No. I didn’t ask for this. But I have power. I use it to protect the people I love. To do what’s best for everyone, not just me.” Scott looks around at all of them. He’s still bleeding in a few places, injuries inflicted by an Alpha take longer to heal, but his posture isn’t wounded. 

“Come on.” Scott opens his hands. “You’ve both been keeping secrets, and the people we care about are in danger because we don’t know how to help them. We can end this, right now. Just tell us what you know.”

Peter sways on his feet, claws twitching. Gerard moves first, and he moves fast. 

Scott tries to stop him, but Gerard barrels through, and Scott claws barely scrape him as he tackles Peter, tearing at him without mercy. Jackson reaches for him, but Gerard is too fast; he bolts, leaving just as quickly as he arrived, leaving Peter, twitching and mangled in his wake. 

“The key,” Peter whispers, “Protect the key.”

Jackson looks up.

“What key? Where is it?”

Stiles looks at Lydia, who’s gone pale.

“It’s here,” he whispers, but she’s already in motion.

“Jackson, follow him, he’s headed for the hospital!”

Jackson breaks off in a sprint, and Scott is close behind. Lydia crouches beside Peter. Stiles flails, trying to stop her, but she’s already got a pouch of mountain ash out, containing Peter before his strength returns. When she’s finished, she kneels beside his body, checking his injuries.

“Gerard didn’t kill him. He’ll heal from this.” She scowls. “I’m not going to help him any.”

Stiles hobbles beside her, his leg throbbing. 

Scott and Jackson return. Aside from a few panic-stricken patients and one very irate Melissa McCall, Gerard didn’t cause much mayhem at the hospital. He’d torn through Stiles’ belongings, and once he’d found what he needed, he ran straight for the wall and didn’t look back. 

He took the purse. 

Stiles gulps. Laura’s purse. The key, whatever it was, it had been there the whole time. His mouth feels dry, and he tries to swallow the creeping sense of fear that’s been threatening to grip him all day. 

“Stiles,” Lydia whispers. “What did he take?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” He grips his palms, feels his fingernails digging into his skin. “We looked through it, we didn’t see anything, nothing _happened_!” He gasps. “There must have been something in there, something we missed-”

She grabs his hand, cutting him off.

“Stiles. Close your eyes.” He listens, still trembling. “Tell me what you remember. Everything. Make a list.”

He nods. 

The purse. Worn leather. Rank, dusty. A copy of ‘Breaking Dawn’, the pages damp and stuck together, a bookmark towards the end, ink work away. The little red swiss army knife Derek said belonged to their father, their human father, but he touched it, and nothing happened. A few spoiled hygiene products. Keys, car, apartment, a few small ones, one for the safety deposit box, and one other, a mailbox maybe, hard to tell with all the rust, and Derek held those, too. Passport. License, her wallet-

“Tell me about when you opened it. What was in it Stiles?”

He licks his lips, rubbing his fingers together.

“It was cracked, creased, it was really old. The snap was broken, so it just kind of opened up in my hand. There was a lot of paper, old receipts I guess, it was all brown and wrinkled. I took out her license. And her metro card. And a library card, too. There were a few of them, one for Brooklyn, and another one for New York Public Library.”

Lydia nods.

“No cash?”

Stiles shrugs. He remembers sifting through the pouches. Black, crusty leather.

“The zipper in the change pocket was still ok. It was hard to get open. There were some quarters and nickels, and some British coins, and an arcade token.” He opens his eyes. “There wasn’t anything else.”

Lydia’s brow is creased.

“Lydia?” Jackson touches her shoulder. “What do we need to do?”

She shakes her head. Whatever she’d been thinking, she hadn’t been able to pull the pieces together.

“We know now that Derek and the others went right into a trap. Gerard might protect Allison, but the others are going to need our help.” Her lips tremble, just for a second.

Scott shifts.

“Lydia?”

She shakes her head.

“Peter Hale just admitted that he did this. He’s the one who changed everything.” For a second, it looks like she’s going to throttle him. Her fingers twitch as if they’re already wrapped around Peter’s neck. Her breaths are heavy and anxious, on the verge of a cool, angry panic. First, she looks at Jackson, the flicker of green scales still glittering at the edge of his neck, hollow and gaunt around the eyes. Then at Stiles, and he knows what she sees: he’s hobbling and snapped in half, pale and wiry where he used to be whole. Finally, her gaze rests on Scott. He shakes his head, just once, small and scared, but sure of what’s right. After everything, he’s still sure. 

Lydia closes her eyes.

“Right.” She whispers. “Someone needs to go after them. We can stop this.” When she opens her eyes again, every trace of doubt is gone. “We can stop this.” Her voice is steady. 

Behind her, Danny rolls his eyes.

“Beacon Hills man.”


	39. De-Conditioned

Braeden crosses her arms.

“You’re sure?”

Derek closes his eyes. He can _see_ it, memories more vivid than they’ve been in years. The car had smelled like incense, patchouli and sandalwood, tickling his nose. Anything to cleanse the scent of fire and death from their lungs. Laura’s keys glittered where they dangled from the ignition, and the highway scenery soared past them in a jumble of dust and hot air sinking away in a steaming blur and _yes_. He remembers.

“I’m sure.” He licks his lips. “She went on a trip. In her wallet…” He swallows. “She left them for me. The coins, the coins are the key.”

Allison sheathes her newfound weapons.

“More importantly, Gerard lied when he sent Derek away. Which means he’s up to something. We’ve got to go back.”

Kira looks between all of them. 

“But what about the captives here? We can’t leave them.”

Behind them, Isaac is pacing, his features still lupine, eyes glowing blue.

“We have to go back. Scott and the others might be in danger.” He looks up at Derek. “If the key is back in Beacon Hills and Gerard has it-” he snarls, “Are you _sure_ it’s the coins?”

Derek stiffens, words spilling out of him, like a memory he doesn’t have access to anymore. 

“An ornament and a safeguard. It’s on the outer rim of the one pound coin… christ she showed it to me.” He closes his eyes, and Laura’s car smelled like ash, didn’t it? Underneath the incense and the anger simmering beneath her furrowed brow. Ashes and rainwater, and her orchid perfume. He’d been sitting beside her, and her fingers had been loose on the steering wheel, and she needed something in her purse, and he’d _seen_ them, held one in his hands, she told him to look, she told him what it meant…

“Derek, you’re shaking.” Allison looks up at him. He was supposed to remember it, he was supposed to, and he’s so sure it made sense in New York, and he can’t sort out why he dropped those memories in between the east and west coasts, and Allison is looking up at him still, and he cringes and lets her think it’s because of what he’s just done.  “Whatever this means, we can solve it once we get back to Beacon Hills. I just need you to stay with us for a little longer.”

He nods. His hands are still covered in blood.

“I can make it back.”

Allison nods.

“Good.” She glances at Kira and Braeden. “Can you two handle things here on your own?”

Braeden shrugs.

“Sounds like we’re gonna have to.”

Kira places a hand on Braeden’s wrist.

“I took care of all the guards outside. Any stragglers will be too weak to fight without their Alpha. We’ll be fine.”

Allison nods. 

“Isaac. Go pick out a car. Make sure the tank is full. I’ll meet you outside in ten.”

Isaac nods, looking grateful for a direction to aim his frenetic energy. Braeden and Kira venture deeper inside the complex. Derek takes a shallow breath, trying to hang on to the memory.

The road was bumpy, and there was music playing on the radio. That song, always that song. He hears it in his gut, covered in static and cobwebs and how many years has it been since he last heard that song? And Laura was wearing red lipstick and a constant frown, and she told him to open her wallet, and he’d seen coins he didn’t recognize, and she told them what they meant. A trip to London, she’d gone on a trip to London. And in the car, she told him that it wasn’t his fault, told him she was to blame, because she was going to be the Alpha one day, she should never have left.

“Derek.”

His teeth are chattering.

“Derek, we need to get you cleaned up. It will help, I promise.”

He nods, laying his arms out for her. She pours a thin trickle of water on his skin from her canteen, and it’s lukewarm, but all he can feel is electric shockwaves, thundering through his bloodstream, jolting his heart, setting fire to the space between his temples. 

He licks his lips.

“I remember.”

She doesn’t look up at him.

“I know.”

He almost chokes on the words.

“How?” His lips twitch. “How did I forget?”

Allison shakes her head.

“I… I wish I knew.” The water in her hands jerks as she shakes her head. “I wish I had an answer for you, but you said you knew Kate.” Her jaw works. “You knew Kate and you’re a werewolf and you’re still alive. If there are things you forgot,” she swallows. “Derek, I’m sorry.”

He cringes, taking a step back without meaning to.

“Why?”

Her voice is hoarse.

“Your eyes. Derek, it’s all going to come back to you. Whatever you’re missing, you body is healing.”

Derek looks down at his hands. Bloody. Water trickles in stained rivulets through his fingers. His time with Deucalion was so clear, and the time before was so vague. His hands are covered in blood. 

“I’m the Alpha now,” he whispers.

Allison nods.


	40. Everything Smells Like Ashes and Smoke (that's what happens when you burn it to the ground)

 Jackson looks up at Lydia.

“Ready?”

Her brow is wrinkled.

“Jackson, you’re sure-”

“No. He’s not.” Scott braces his hands on Peter’s ankles. “Because you can’t be sure. Because it’s impossible to know for sure which memories you’re going to find when you go digging.” He wrinkles his nose. “And Peter… he doesn’t smell right.”

Jackson snarls.

“He smells like the selfish sonofa-”

Stiles places a hand on Lydia’s shoulder, teetering precariously on his crutch.

“Lydia, you heard him admit it. He _caused_ this. And Gerard just ran off with the tools we need to fix it. We’re not going to be able to help the others if we don’t know _exactly_ what happened.”

She purses her lips, glancing at Scott.

“You’ll hold him down? No matter what happens?”

Scott takes a deep breath.

“I’ll do it. I don’t have to like it.”

She nods at Jackson.

“Do it. Find out what he knows.”

Jackson cracks his neck, extending the claws on his right hand. 

“I’ll try not to kill him.”

Jackson plunges his claws into the back of Peter’s neck, and his eyes glow bright blue. Peter thrashes, barely conscious, and Scott braces his palms against his legs, stopping his frenzied struggles. Lydia hangs on to Stiles, her knuckles white, staring at Jackson. His posture is rigid, and his forehead is creased. 

“Forest,” he rasps, eyes darting left and right beneath his eyelids. “Looks like the old Preserve. It smells like… ashes,” he grimaces. “Ashes and smoke.”

Peter twitches, and Scott readjusts, hanging on to him.

“He’s going to wake up!”

“Just a little longer Scott!” Lydia doesn’t take her eyes off Jackson. “What else?”

“There’s a girl.” His voice is laden with bitter tension. “She’s the Alpha that bit me.” He takes a heavy, gasping breath, and tears his hand out of Peter’s neck. Peter’s eye shoot open and he snarls, trying to throw Scott off. His injuries slow him down, and he ends up curled around his still-healing torso, new blood trickling from the reopened wounds. Jackson stares down at him, impassive.

“You killed her.”

Peter chokes.

“You’ll have to be more specific I’m afraid.”

Jackson reaches for Peter’s throat, throttling him before Scott can stop him.

“Jackson, stop, let him go!”

“He killed her and then he _used_ her power-”

“Jackson!” Lydia grabs his arm, and he freezes. Beneath her fingertips, his skin is glossy and green, and his claws have morphed into talons. He lets go of Peter, who stumbles back to the ground, wheezing. 

“You didn’t see what things would have been like.” Peter hisses, cradling his neck. “In this world, only the most powerful survive. Here, we are _monsters_.” His face contorts, gleeful and wicked. “Out in the open, with claws and fangs. We are _feared_. That’s how it should be. I _fixed_ it! And you’re worried about the life of _one_ girl?! What I gave you is a _gift-_!”

Scott punches him, hard. Peter slumps to the ground, unconscious.

Lydia blinks.

“Scott.”

Scott flexes his hand, fingers strong and human.

“Was any of that actually _helpful_?”

Lydia sighs.

“Actually, yes, it was.” She licks her lips. “Because in that convoluted superiority complex, Peter gave away the essence of the spell.”

Stiles feels his fingers twitching.

“You know what it was?”

She nods.

“And I know how Derek can undo it. Peter used the power of the Alpha to redesign the world. We’ve been living in an alternate timeline.”

Stiles chews his lip.

“Laura. That was his sister’s name.” He looks up at Jackson. “She bit you?”

He nods.

“She was injured. She gave me the bite and she gave me… memories. The Hale family. It was like she wanted to preserve them.” He glances at Lydia. “Is that what he needs to fix it?”

“Not quite.” Lydia starts pacing. “The way the spell works, if my research is correct, the person who would have been the Alpha after Laura died has the power to alter the timeline. So Derek can change this world to suit his vision, the same way Peter did. He could use those memories to bring his family to life.”

Stiles swallows.

“Or he could bring it back? The world the way it was?”

Lydia nods.

“The spell is flawed. The world is going to try to revert back to normal. That’s why the weather patterns are so wrong, that’s why there’s so much magic. The spell has been working against the natural order, and nature has been fighting back. Derek _has_ to bring us back to the day Peter originally cast the spell.”

Stiles touches her arm as she passing, and she stops, looking up at him.

“Just tell me how.”

She nods.

“He has to touch the coin. After that, it’s up to him to wield the power.”

Stiles snarls.

“And Gerard is going to try to force him to wield it for him.” He lets go of her. “We need to leave. They need us. Derek needs to know-”

“Stiles.” Scott grasps his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Stiles grips his cane, eyes shut.

“Fine. But you need to leave.” He opens his eyes. “All of you. You can’t leave Derek and the others to fight Gerard on their own. And there’s no telling what Deucalion’s already doing to them. Get the coins from Gerard and fix this.”

Scott looks like he’s about to say something kind, but Stiles turns away, hobbling as quickly as he can in the direction of the hospital. He hears them making plans, their voices fading as he gets further away. It doesn’t matter. He fights the wave of acid panic bubbling up inside his lungs. He can’t help Derek, not like this. He struggles up the hill, grass catching at his cane. 

The hospital is a quiet mess. The door is hanging off its hinges. Melissa is pale, trying to clean away the splinters of wood littering the floor, salvaging supplies. It doesn’t matter. She says something to him as he walks past her, but he doesn’t hear it. He needs the spell book. It’s there, beside Jackson’s bed. Forgotten. He lifts it, the binding heavy and cracked. He turns the pages, his heart beating like a stone against his chest. His leg aches. He hears thunder overhead, and wonders when the storm began. 

“Stiles?”

He finally hears Melissa. She’s checking his temperature, her hand cool on his forehead. He lets her, lets her check the dilation of his pupils. He’s found the page he was looking for. 

“Stiles, what are you doing? What’s happened?”

His voice, when he hears it, is calm.

“I need to follow the others.” Too calm, too little like the fire burning up inside him. “This is the only way.”

 


	41. The Air Tastes Like Carnage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has brief mentions of Kate Argent. If you want to skip it, I'll leave a brief summary at the end.

Isaac is not a careful driver. 

It’s not a distinction Derek would have thought mattered, but it does. The concrete roads are all torn to shreds, and the less civilized ones are churning with thick mud. It shouldn’t make a difference, but Derek misses Stiles’ meticulous, steady pace, and the patient way he favors the engine. Isaac keeps slamming the brakes, jerking the van in odd directions, and the stench of overworked rubber is impossible to shake off. 

Beside him, Allison is sweating. She’s staring straight ahead, focusing on the road. He can’t tell if she’s looking for attackers or if she’s just trying to fight the same nausea he’s feeling. His head is spinning, and his mouth tastes like bile. He’s tried closing his eyes, but the swaying of the car just feels like a rip current battering his skin. Everything he smells brings back an echo in his body. He feels something hard around his wrists and something tight inside his chest, and he knows it’s not there, because the air around that time is expired and old, and it smells like the Atlantic Ocean. Salt water. And the tension between his shoulder blades feels like a hand resting on his spine. 

So he keeps his eyes open, and tries not to think about it. 

“Derek?”

Allison places a hand between them on the seat. After a second of hesitation, he takes it, rubbing her palm with his thumb. The callouses on her palm are unfamiliar underneath his thumb. 

“It’s coming all at once. But in pieces.”

She nods.

“Will it help to talk about it?”

He shrugs, and he can feel claws digging into his ribcage. 

“I don’t think it will make sense if I try to put it into words.”

She squeezes his hand. He can feel her pulse. It’s fast, but steady.

“It doesn’t have to.”

He unclenches his jaw, hears the joints popping, a sound like a limb being severed, and _why_ does he remember that sound? He sees flashes of color, he can taste iron and sweetness between his teeth, and the sound echoes, that magnified sound. 

“She told me would protect me. But she didn’t. We were supposed to be coming back. To do what Laura needed me to do. But she made me forget. Over and over and over again.” He feels his canines extending, and forces his lungs to breathe. “I can smell it. Everything she made me do. I can’t smell the trees or the sun.”

Allison places her other hand over their intertwined ones.

“You’re here. Derek, you’re here. Everything you’re seeing and feeling has already happened.”

Isaac peers at them from the mirror.

“Do I need to pull over?”

“No!” Allison leans forward, wincing. “Don’t stop moving.” Her heartbeat stutters. “There might be more guards.”

Derek glances at her. She’s pale. 

“Allison?”

She shakes her head.

“Just keep talking Derek.”

He licks his lips.

“I remember Laura,” bright smile, long hair, cucumber body wash, loud laugh. “She took me running through Central Park.” Crater, huge, gaping, the ground cracked in half and filled up with water. “New York fell all around us.” Fire, and thunder, and Kate Argent, pushing him forward, electricity singeing his skin. “She said she took care of me.” Over and over and over again. “I ripped out their throats, but I couldn’t kill her.” No, that was Peter, wasn’t it? He found them, somehow. Found Derek. “He left me there.” Stinking cell, no light, too many sounds. “He wanted revenge.” _He didn’t save you, Derek_. The voice whispering in his ear is too much like his own. _He wanted you dead_. 

Allison gasps, choking on her own breath. The car skids through mud. 

“Guys?” Isaac’s voice is pitched too high. 

Allison grabs the back of Isaac’s seat, looking out the windshield. Derek can’t see, but he hears her heartbeat as shock shudders through her body, cold and dangerous. And he hears the growl outside, reverberating through the shell of the car. He knows that sound. 

“Gerard,” Allison whispers, but Derek already knows.

He hears Isaac gulp.

“Should I try to keep going?”

Allison squares her jaw.

“No. He’s here for me.”

She starts to get out, but Isaac grabs her arm.

“No! He’s going-”

“He’s going to kill either of you if you try to fight him.” Allison glances at Derek, and he nods, almost minute enough to miss. He needs time. Not long. 

Isaac glares, but Allison stares him down.

“I’m going with you.”

“Fine.” She slings her bow over her shoulders. “You can watch me shoot him down if it comes to it.”

And with that, she hops out of the car. 

Isaac hesitates for a second, groaning.

“I did _not_ get the bite for this.” He rolls his eyes, resting on Derek. “You coming?”

Derek coughs, shaking away the memories rattling around inside his chest.

“I’m not dead yet.”

* * *

Stiles stands alone in the woods. The mandrake root is a lead weight in his hand. It feels rough and gnarled, like a tangled, stone heart. He clutches it to his chest, a trickle of blood seeping from the wound in his palm. His leg aches. Too many brambles to step over, too many obstacles. He needs the water. 

The memory of Derek, his voice smooth and dark and deep. 

It’s just a stream here, but the sound of the water is familiar if he listens to it. He tunes out the arguments still rattling between his ears. The spell won’t work if he’s worried about Melissa. Maybe she found Scott in time, or maybe he and the others were already gone. It doesn’t matter. He focuses on the sounds around him, the quiet hush of the woods. The low hum of the water. The hollow drone of the wind winding through the trees. He dips his bare feet in the stream. It’s cool. 

He clutches the mandrake, and recites the words of the curse. Recites the words, and howls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Derek is having flashbacks because he's more powerful now and his body is healing. The memories that Kate suppressed and erased while they were traveling together are coming back. Allison talks him through it while Isaac drives them back to Beacon Hills. However, Gerard arrives and blocks their way. Meanwhile, Stiles is doing some magic in the woods.
> 
> I hope everyone so inclined has a lovely holiday this week! I will be eating every cookie.


	42. Bloodlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of Kate Argent in this one, and a lot of blood.

Allison’s posture is sturdy as she steps away from the car, arrow notched and ready. Gerard’s eyes glow red and violent in the slowly dimming light. His features are lupine and fearsome, contorted in anger. Isaac stands by Allison’s side, wary despite his trained look of indifference. Derek tries not to sway on his feet, reminding himself of where he is. He feels cold. He almost feels calm. 

“Gerard.” Allison’s voice rings true and clear through the trees. 

“You should be proud, Allison. You’re a gifted warrior.”

She doesn’t budge.

“What do you want?”

His lips curl around his jagged teeth.

“I want to safeguard our family’s future.”

Allison glares.

“What family?” Her expression is stony. “Your legacy tore us apart. My parents _left me_ ,” she doesn’t choke on her anger, and Derek briefly wonders how she’s been able to master her own pain with such efficiency. “They chose cruelty and killing over kindness, over the life I was creating for us here. It was the end of the world, and they still couldn’t let go.” She shakes her head. “Is that the future you want for us?”

Gerard snarls.

“The future I have planned for you is one of freedom! Free of the fear of the monsters that surround us!”

Her eyebrow twitches.

“Monsters?” She glances at Isaac, who takes a step closer to her. “I think you and I might have a very different definition of what makes someone a monster.”

Derek chokes, the word echoing in the back of his skull. _I’ll protect you from all the monsters, Derek, just close your eyes…_ What monsters? What did she mean? Who? Where? Her voice was so soft, like a whisper. He shakes his head, trying to banish it away. He knows who the real monster was.

Gerard is looking at him. Allison sees it before he does.

“Derek-”

Blood on his hands, fire in his lungs. Electricity erasing signals between his eyes. He’s standing, and Gerard is watching him, and Gerard knows something. Derek has the key, he always had the key, he was the missing piece that could end all of this. And instead he was hiding behind the fury of Kate Argent, tearing the world apart up and down the East Coast, destroying everything in her path. Blood and fire and a willingness to forget. There’s no question, he knows who the real monster was. 

Gerard is snarling, and he’s in the woods, Allison and Isaac by his side, and he shakes off his memories just a second too late. 

“You!”

Allison’s bow shrieks as an arrow sings through the air, and Gerard’s body jerks around it when it finds its mark, but he doesn’t let go of Derek. His fingers are tight around his throat. Derek is choking, claws dragging against Gerard’s skin, tearing at his knuckles. Derek doesn’t remember shifting. Gerard’s breath is hot against his cheeks, and he struggles for air as he’s lifted off the ground, the scent of feral pheromones clouding out the logical parts of him, crowding out the tampered memories, until he feels his blood running thick with adrenaline. He feels awake. He feels sharp. He feels strong. 

His eyes begin to glow, he sees it in the tremor that goes through Gerard’s body. 

He’s stronger than before. 

Derek grips Gerard’s forearms, sinking his claws into the man’s skin, twisting until he hears a bone snap. The aftershock flows through his body, and Derek ignores the man’s pain. Gerard’s grip goes lip and Derek falls, landing on his feet without tumbling or tripping. Gerard snarls as the injury begins to heal, slashing at Derek with his uninjured arm, revealing the arrow still protruding form his back with every twist and turn. Derek dodges, showing his teeth as he growls back. 

He feels thunder rumbling beneath his feet. He doesn’t care. 

With a deep growl echoing inside his chest, he digs his talons into Gerard’s chest, tearing through his abdomen and lifting him with his own ribcage. Blood drenches his arm as he flings Gerard against a thick tree. The wet, crunching sound that accompanies the impact almost makes him flinch, echoes of the noise reminding him of the shadows he’s beginning to remember. Allison materializes beside him, for a moment banishing the spiraling nightmare his mind is becoming. Her arrow is notched and ready, aimed at Gerard. The old man’s neck looks like it might be broken, his grin is lopsided and bloody. When he speaks, his arms jerk, and red froth jumps from his tongue. His body is trying to heal, and it’s not pleasant. 

“Stand down, Gerard.” Allison doesn’t blink. “Whatever it is you came here to do, you’ve lost.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His voice is raspy, but firm. “I came here to protect you. All I need is the key.” He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a familiar wallet. Derek feels his muscles tightening, preparing for a fight he’s already lost. 

“What did you do to them?” He hears himself whisper.

“To your friends, back in Beacon Hills?” His jaws twitch. “Dead. All of them.”

His chest constricts, and his vision goes dark. He blinks, hearing a howl great enough to tear the sky apart, and he doesn’t notice right away that it’s not coming from him. Isaac is screaming, guttural and wild. The only one that hasn’t moved is Allison, though he can feel her anger. It’s at once white-hot, it’s cold and calm and terrifying. She is completely still, arrow aimed at Gerard’s heart. Derek remembers, as if delirious, that this is how he first saw her. Fearless and furious, and surrounded by fire. 

“Say that again.”

Gerard coughs, and this time, voice churning over the words.

“Everyone in Beacon Hills is dead.” He turns his gaze to Derek, who tries desperately not to give anything away. “But you, don’t you know you have the power to fix it?”

He feels numb.

“I do.”

Gerard licks his lips, fumbling with the wallet.

“All that’s needed is the key.”

“Derek.” Allison doesn’t look away from her target. “Don’t. Whatever he’s telling you to do. It’s got to be a trick, don’t give him what he wants.”

Derek looks down at his bloody fist, clenched tight. Stiles. He left Stiles in Beacon Hills, he wasn’t there to protect him when he knew, he _knew_ , he should have known what would happen. Gerard, or Peter, he should never have left Stiles alone near either one of them, let alone both at once. Isaac makes another strangled noise, and Derek hears an echo of it in his own heart. 

“You’re the key Derek, you have been all along. All you need,” he forces the wallet open, and a handful of coins fall out, “is right here.”

A shrill, bitter rain begins to fall, icy and rigid down his back. It distorts the smells all around him, pine becomes ashes, blood becomes bile, everything turns bitter as he steps forward.

“Derek!” Allison yelps.

“You have the power, Derek. You can remake the world in whatever way you wish. You can bring the dead back to life. All of them Derek, everyone.”

“Stop it,” Allison’s words are laced with rage. “Gerard, don’t say another word to him.”

Gerard chuckles.

“Or what?”

She responds with another arrow, in his chest. Gerard groans around it, slumping forwards.

“It’s going to take more than arrows, Allison. You should know by now, what it takes to kill a demon. Derek knows, don’t you, Derek?”

Derek forces himself to look Gerard in the eye.

“No.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. What was it you had to do, to survive until now? I can smell Deucalion’s death all around you Derek. You owe your newfound strength to him, and his sacrifice. I think you’re like me, Derek.”

Another arrow sings over Derek’s shoulder, and he didn’t realize how close to the man he’d gotten until he feels it passing under him. Gerard’s body lurches, pinned to the tree, blood seeping into the ground, mixing with the thick rainfall.

“You’re the fist that cleanses the planet of the filth and the scum.” His mouth twists around the words. “I was hoping you’d be killed, but this is better, isn’t it? You can restart the world, Derek. You can put yourself by my side. Resurrect your family as hunters. You and I can be the kings of this world.” He glances over Derek’s shoulder. “You can have her.” His eyes glow. “You can have _everything_.”

Derek shakes his head, no, he’s not like… he remembers the feeling of his plasm wrapped around someone’s throat, and he doesn’t even remember who, or why, just Kate Argent, laughing in his ear, telling him _good, good, more, do it Derek_. The coins glitter on the ground, and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t understand what’s expected of him, he needs to get the words out of his head, and Kate’s smile looks so much like Gerard. He knows he has to do something, that there’s something he needs to fix, but he can’t break the spell. The coins are so close he can see the inscription on the band. 

“What do I need to do?”

Gerard is grinning. Allison is cursing. 

“Touch them, Derek. Touch them, and take the power that’s yours.”

Breaking through the darkness, lightning strikes, and with it, the world howls. 

 


	43. Sirens

The smells are pine and fur and feral and blood and Derek and gasoline and rainclouds and evergreen and sweat and he can see green things _moving_ , growing faster than he’s ever seen them, expanding all around him, fastening than lightning. It _hurts_ , sirens going off behind his eyelids, all of his senses firing all at once, blaring as a desperate howl escapes his lips. Where are they?! He can smell them but he can’t see, there’s water all around him and he chokes like he’s drowning, and when he bursts through the clearing there are figures on the ground and he can’t tell them apart. The one with the bow, he thinks he must know her by the way her voice cracks on his name, “Stiles!”, but he doesn’t know, something about her is strange. 

Derek.

His smell, covered in blood, his smell, his _smell_ , and it’s so much, it’s _too_ much. He smells like sunlight on roses and sharp metal and burning wood, like a controlled fire and an all-consuming inferno. A sound like thunder rolls through his body as he searches for the source of the blood. 

“Stiles, Stiles!” Derek’s arms around him, Derek’s arms stopping him. “Stiles, please, what’s happened, Stiles!”

He gasps, filling up his entire body with the scent, and he almost chokes on the taste of fear and anger and fire and pain and running, blood and torture and rage, all of it compiled and he can feel it all at once. 

“He’s feral. Whatever he is, he’s feral.”

Another voice is writing over the other sounds, the sounds of a forest drenched by water, the sound of the earth beneath him and his footsteps as he moves, the sound of six heartbeats and others, all around, some familiar, some animal, some prey. He feels it in every fiber of skin. His own heart, he knows well enough. Derek, he gravitates toward, shaking too much to be held. The sound of the steady beat is soothing and good, because Derek is alive and most of the blood is not his. He closes his eyes, and when he reopens them, he finds it’s easier to focus. Isaac’s teeth are sharp and ready, his face covered in fur. Gerard is strange and broken and sickly and it pounds against his eardrums and he wants to tear it apart-

“… but are they all right, we have to ask him-”

“Leave him alone, can’t you see what’s happened to him?!” Derek pulls Stiles away from Isaac, grabbing his chin. “Just breathe, focus on the sounds nearby, don’t let yourself try to find them all. Just focus on what you know, breathe, easy, easy.”

He nods.

“It’s a spell. Temporary.” It’s so hard to speak, so hard to remember that he _can_ speak. His mouth feels strange, full of jagged, foreign shapes. _Teeth_. He has sharp teeth now. Monster teeth. “I did it to protect you, I wanted to come after you. My leg,” he waves his arm at it without really aiming. “It’s healed. Are you…” he gasps, and there’s too much air in his lungs again. He exhales, slower. “Are you all right? All of you?”

Derek nods.

“All of us. We got out. We’re all right.”

Stiles swallows. Allison, he knows Allison, he’s cared for her. 

He hears the sixth heart beat as Allison lets out a cry.

He feels someone grabbing his shoulder. He hears the sound of trees crashing around his ears, and he thinks he might have been thrown. Somewhere beyond, everyone is yelling. Gerard is growling, and Stiles gets up before he can regain control of his feet, and he’s snarling and tearing at Gerard’s flesh, and he can’t feel the blows he knows Gerard is offering in return. He tastes blood, lets it trickle out between his teeth. 

_Rage_. He doesn’t remember ever being this furious. The anger sings through his veins, blazing. He doesn’t move with any finesse, and he knows he should, somewhere in his mind he knows that’s how this works. When Derek fought Peter, there was planning, intent. Nothing like this. He feels vicious. He tears his claws into Gerard’s flesh, ripping him apart. Gerard barrels into him, pinning him to the ground, and his breath is smoky and repulsive and hot in his face, accented by a deep growl. Stiles screams, struggling, but it’s not fear that’s moving him. Fear would make sense. Fear would be rational. Fear is the appropriate response to have when face to face with a murderous enemy. Fear is as far from his mind as possible. Stiles is _pissed_. 

“What are you doing-? Allison!”

He hears the voices as thought they’re far away. He wants to say, _she can’t_ , but he can’t put the words together, can’t explain why.

“I can’t get a clear shot! Not without hurting Stiles!”

Derek’s heartbeat is so close. Gerard’s fist plunges into his gut. 

“You want the bite, boy?”

Stiles shows Gerard his teeth, seething and writhing, thinking about the taste of the man’s blood, how good it will feel going down his throat. He’s thinking _prey_ , and _kill_. 

“Stiles!”

The weight is pulled off him, and Gerard goes crashing into the trees. Stiles feels his breath forcing his lungs to expand, violent and pounding against his chest. He glares at Derek before he realizes _Derek_ , and he pulls away. His claws are dripping, covered in blood. 

“It’s okay. Stiles. It’s me. You’re okay.”

He feels sick.

“But Gerard.”

An arrow sings.


	44. Slow Motion

Allison’s mark strikes true. 

Gerard stumbles. His body is still trying to heal. His fight with Stiles was brutal, but not damaging. Stiles is rabid, shivering all over, bleeding from dozens of deep injuries. Gerard straightens, glaring at all of them. He saves the last of his hate for Allison.

“Think of what you’re doing, Allison. With all that we could have, are you really sure this is the side you want to be on?”

She’s trembling, body racked by convulsions, but her arms are steady. She shoots again, striking Gerard’s heart. The sound is loud and wet, punctuated by lightning. She doesn’t blink. 

“I’m sure.”

Gerard cackles, an ugly, croaking sound. Allison reaches for another arrow.

“Traitor.”

She shoots again. The arrow goes through his eye, to the back of his skull. Gerard folds, collapsing to the ground. His body twitches, but he doesn’t rise. His heart stops beating. 

“Fine by me,” Allison whispers, grimacing. She clutches her stomach. “Crap.” Isaac catches her as she lowers her bow, and she leans into him. “It’s early.” She shakes her head, rain droplets scattering around her shoulders. 

“We need to get you back home.” Isaac looks up at Derek. “Now.”

Stiles is still shaking, his eyes glowing every time lightning flashes across the sky. The distant sounds of the storm are brutal, and Derek can hear it creeping across the land towards them. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles jerks his head towards the sound of Derek’s voice, but his eyes are wild, and he doesn’t give any indication that he can understand.

“Derek!”

“I can’t leave him out here!” Stiles is breathing heavily. “Not like this.”

His clothes are covered in blood and filth. The claws, still extended, are sharp and deadly. His face is warped and strange, but his scent is still the same. Cinnamon. Pine, or evergreen. Sea salt. Stiles trembles, twitching at every sound, at even the barest hint of movement. His eyes are wide, pupils dark and overwhelmed. Derek isn’t sure how to account for all of his injuries; there are too many dark stains to be sure. The minor cuts on his face and arms look like they’re healing, and Stiles is still standing. Is that blood seeping from his chest, or muddy rainwater? The smell of his anger is too overwhelming.

“Stiles.”

He hears it when Stiles does, a car, coming closer. Stiles growls, but Derek reaches for him. Stiles lets him hold his arm, but Derek can feel the tension filling his entire body. He’s vibrating with it. 

“What is it?” Allison is the only one who can’t hear, but she can see their reactions well enough. “Are they hunters or-”

“No.” Isaac’s brow is furrowed, but his heartbeat is calm. “I think it’s Scott.”

Derek turns back to Stiles, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“You hear that? It’s Scott. Your friend. It’s okay. We’re safe. We’re not being attacked.”

Stiles nods, swaying on his feet.

“Scott and the others. They’re coming.”

Derek nods.

“That’s right. We’re going back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles closes his eyes.

“But. No. The… what was the word?” His throat rumbles. “The words. You were the key.”

Derek nods.

“I know. I know, I remember. It’s okay.”

“No!” Stiles opens his eyes. They glow, golden-bright. “Gerard wasn’t the only one who knew! Derek, it’s not safe, we have to stop it!”

His voice is raw, and he starts to struggle against Derek. He’s strong, stronger than he should be, and Derek is torn between being afraid of hurting him, and worried about what will happen if Stiles manages to get away. 

“Stiles, Stiles!” He grips his shoulders harder, trying to ground him. He looks into his eyes, even though it doesn’t feel like Stiles is really looking back. “It’s all right! Gerard had the coins. We’ll get them.” 

He turns. Allison is leaning on Isaac for support, and she’s pale, too pale. It’s grown colder in the past few minutes. He doesn’t know enough about humans, doesn’t know what he should do for her. He knows labor can be dangerous, even for werewolves. Stiles is the one who- he shakes his head. 

“Can you get them? The coins?” He gestures over his shoulder. “He’s not going to calm down until we have them.”

Allison nods, shaky.

“Isaac, give me a hand.”

Derek turns back to Stiles.

“See? Allison and Isaac are going to get the coins. They’re not lost. Nobody bad has them. Stiles, please listen to me, everything is going to be all right.”

Stiles is still quavering, but he nods. His eyes dim, and it seems like the animal hairline is receding. His breath is still ragged, but it’s slower, and his tremors are more contained. His voice, when he speaks, is mellow and even, if a little strange, morphed by the still-canid teeth. 

“It’s all right.” He looks up at Derek, and for the first time, Derek thinks he’s sure Stiles knows what he’s looking at. “You’re all right.”

Derek nods.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

Stiles takes a shuddering gasp of a breath.

“I thought… when Gerard got away. We realized it was a trap. I thought you were dead. All of you.” He shakes his head. “Are Kira and Braeden-?”

“Safe.” Derek rubs Stiles’ shoulders, trying to get him warm. “They stayed behind, to help anyone being held captive. But they’re fine. Deucalion is dead.”

Stiles nods.

“He’s dead.” He closes his eyes, tight. “And you’re alive.” His lips shake. “You’re all right.”

Derek folds Stiles into his arms. He’s not sure if it’s going to help, but he feels Stiles relax into him, and the trembling subsides. Derek rubs circles into his back, spreading warmth between his shoulder blades. His heartbeat is loud, like a siren, but it’s steadier. 

“It’s all right, Stiles.” His forces his voice to remain calm. “Let this anchor you. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”

Allison makes a choking sound, and Derek hears a voice that makes his back stiffen.

“How very touching, Derek.”

A car comes crashing through the trees. 

 


	45. Asphyxiating

Stiles feels like he can’t breathe. The end of the world is a hell of a time to get a panic attack.

Scott practically falls out of the car, Lydia and Jackson fast on his heels. Derek’s heartbeat is loud as the thunder still rattling the clouds overhead. Allison yelps, and Scott is with her, whispering. He opens his eyes, and Lydia is beside him, scanning his features, and he doesn’t know how distorted they are, but she can guess what’s he did. And Peter is grinning. Peter is grinning, and he’s got the coins, and he’s too close to the others, and he’s going to do something, Stiles has to do something-

“Stand back, Stiles.”

Derek’s posture is rigid. 

“Derek-”

“That’s my nephew. Playing guard dog for a scared little human. You don’t even realize how they’re using you.”

Stiles cringes, but Derek’s voice is clear.

“Step back, Peter.”

Peter leans against one of the trees, at ease. 

“Or what?”

Derek’s answering rumble is punctuated by the flash of his claws. Peter watches with obvious distaste. Stiles feels like he can’t breathe. The forest smells like anger, the tension overwhelming his other senses. He didn’t understand, before, when Scott would tell him that he could smell feelings. Now he knows, and the scents are making him dizzy. Allison’s pain. Lydia’s worry. Isaac’s fear. Peter’s anger. His stomach feels like it’s been torn apart, and when he looks down, he remembers that he kind of was. 

“Whatever you came here for, I’m going to stop you.” Derek is walking, and his steps are confident, powerful, he doesn’t look away from his uncle. “Now give me the coins.”

Peter steps away from the tree.

“Very nice, Derek. Sounds like someone gave you a dose of courage. A little late.” He smirks. “And what, exactly, are you planning on doing when you get these coins? Do you even know how to use them?”

Derek stiffens, and Peter’s grin is feral. 

“As plans go, this wasn’t a great one.”

Derek growls.

“I’ll just have to tear the secrets out of you then.”

Peter’s face contorts.

“Best of luck.”

Derek lunges for him, but out of nowhere a dark figure emerges from the trees, tackling Derek. Stiles tenses, stumbling over his own feet as he tries to reach Derek. He falls, cursing his leg, but that’s not it, not quite. Someone’s grabbed his ankle. He looks behind him, struggling. One of the rescued werewolves, Erica, is rearing to strike, eyes glowing blue in the flashing darkness. Stiles rolls, feels his blood fuming, and tries to remain calm, tries not to let if overwhelm him. He can hear Lydia’s breath catch behind him, tries to focus on her. He needs to protect her. If he can protect her, he can protect Derek, he can protect all of them. 

“Stiles!”

He slashes at Erica’s face, and she roars back at him. 

“They’re under Peter’s control!” Isaac is shouting behind him. “They can’t stop!”

Another figure joins the fray, and Stiles snarls before he realizes it’s Jackson. He slams into Erica, bringing her to the ground with a deep, throaty cry. Stiles steps forward, but his legs buckle underneath him and he falls, knees slamming into the mud. Lydia grasps his shoulder, and she’s in front of him, talking, but he can’t focus, there are too many screams and howls all around him. She’s trying to drag him away, but he can’t move. 

“You’ve lost so much blood, can’t you feel this, Stiles!”

Too many heartbeats, so loud, so jarring. Everything is moving too fast. He can’t breathe. There’s water in the air, and he can’t breathe. He’s drowning. 

He tries to listen for Derek.

“Stiles, you’re shaking. God, whatever you did, it’s wearing off, Stiles!”

He tries to listen for it, but it’s so far away. He has to turn, he has to look for him. His limbs feel so heavy, but he tears his body forwards, trying to see. Peter and Derek are locked in a struggle, and Derek is bleeding from shallow cuts along his abdomen. Boyd is slashing at him from behind, but Isaac rips him away, howling. With a howl, Jackson throws Erica to the ground in front of him, obscuring Stiles’ vision as he lunges at her. They become a tangled mess of blood and dirt, thrashing and snarling at each other as they roll across the ground. their eyes glow blue, illuminating their fierce expressions. 

Stiles clutches his stomach. It feels so tight, it hurts, and he realizes that he’s not breathing. He forces his lungs to expand, sucking in a stifled breath, choking. His senses are see-sawing between being too much, completely overwhelming him with movements and sounds, and being heavily muted by shock. He knows he’s been injured, knows if the spell wears off his body isn’t going to heal, but the knowledge keeps slipping away from him with every whiff of blood and violence. He knows that it’s Lydia holding him, until he doesn’t, until her consoling presence feels like an enemy at his back. He tries not to struggle against her. Judging from the panic in her voice, it’s not working. 

“Derek!” Peter snarls, blood smeared across the side of his face. 

Derek is nursing an injured arm, but he’s glaring at Peter. Stiles is caught between needing to help and a paralyzing fear. He can smell Peter’s rage, hear it in his voice, and he’s human enough to know that all that anger would be deadly when directed at him. 

“I made this world for us! So we could be safe!”

“Safe!” Derek barks. “I barely survived after New York, after I-”

“After you walked right back into that hunter’s arms!”

Derek charges at Peter. Stiles tries to watch but their movements are a blur, and Isaac and Boyd keep stepping in the way, struggling with fists and claws and curses. 

“Boyd, fight it!” Isaac is defending more than attacking, steering the fight away from Scott and Allison. “Don’t let him control you!”

Boyd growls, shaking with exertion. 

Peter slams Derek into a tree, hissing into his face. Stiles yelps, but Lydia holds him back, and he can feel a searing, wrenching pain in his gut, blood trickling out between his fingers. Peter grabs Derek’s throat before he can recover, forcing Derek to look into his eyes. 

“ _I_ created this world,” Peter hisses, “ _I_ sent her to you. So you could _kill_ her! But you _chose_ to be a coward Derek.” Derek wriggles against Peter’s grip, but Peter’s rage is powerful. 

“Then change it again.” Derek glares. “Take me out of the equation this time.”

Peter grins.

“An excellent decision.”

Stiles feels sick.

“But your darling sister made sure I couldn’t.” He releases Derek, and he slumps against the tree, massaging his neck. 

“What?” He chokes.

“I needed enough power to complete the spell. Laura had what I needed. But she _fought_ me.” He voice goes ragged and bitter. “She trapped the essence of the spell, and gave _you_ the power to unlock it.”

Derek swallows. Peter cackles.

“And when I found out, I’d already given you to Deucalion!” His eyes are wide and manic. “I thought I’d be stuck here forever!”

Derek steps forward.

“What do you _want_ from me?!”


	46. Precursor

Derek looks back at Stiles, huddled on the ground. Lydia is crouched over him, eyes wide. Erica and Jackson are both bleeding, clawing at each other without remorse. A few feet away, Allison is breathing hard, held up by Scott. Isaac and Boyd are locked together, neither one giving any ground. 

“You could change all of this, Derek. You could be the one in control.”

The sound of Peter’s voice is smooth and soothing, and it makes him sick. 

“I don’t want this.”

Peter’s eyes glitter.

“You can _remake_ it Derek. Think about it,” Peter begins to pace around him. “You can bring Kate back, do whatever you want to her. You can have the revenge you _deserved_.”

Derek shudders as another memory trickles up his spine. He can hear her voice whispering in his ear, _kill him Derek_ , feminine and dark. When he blinks he can see the body at his feet, bright yellow eyes asking for help, for mercy and forgiveness, and he can feel his muscles twitch as he delivers the killing blow. She was wiping werewolves off the map, and using him to do it. And Peter is offering, what Peter is saying-

“I can bring people back.”

Peter smirks.

“That’s the idea.”

“Jackson!” Lydia screams.

Derek spins. Erica is holding Jackson down. He’s thrashing against her, but he’s bleeding from a patchwork of rough-looking cuts. Isaac is still fighting Boyd, trying to disable him, but he’s not ruthless enough. Allison and Scott can only watch shakily. Jackson snarls, and Erica lifts him, only to slam him back into the ground head first.

“Let him go!” Lydia is teary-eyed. “You’re hurting him!”

Erica shudders, fighting against Peter’s control.

“Tell _him_ ,” she spits the word at Peter’s feet. 

“You could bring _us_ back, Derek.” Peter paces around him, like a predator stalking prey, as if the strangled, pained noises behind him aren’t pounding inside his heart. “Your family. Your home. We could win against the hunters this time, we could all be alive again, in a world worth living in.” Peter flashes a gruesome smile, teeth bared and bloody in the flashing light. “You might even be able to restore my sanity!”

Derek whimpers. He can’t feel Kate’s lips on him, telling him to behave. 

“Derek.”

He looks at Stiles, slumped in Lydia’s arms. 

“Listen to me Derek. Think of everything you could have.”

He doesn’t look away from Stiles. His features are settling back to his human form, and Derek can hear his heart beating irregularly, fast and startling, like a rabbit. Too fast, too much. He’s losing blood. Derek knows he can’t stay here like this, that he needs help, that they _all_ need help. 

He takes one step forward, palm open.

“I’ll do it.”

Peter’s face cracks into a menacing grin. Derek reaches for the coins. Stiles makes a strangled noise, one that Derek tries to block out. 

“Just picture it, Derek,” Peter’s voice is a coarse whisper. “Just think of the world, the way it’s meant to be.”

He looks Peter in the eye. 

“It’s meant to be the way it was,” he snarls. He grabs Peter’s wrist, and presses the palm of his hand against the cool metal coins. At once, they heat up, burning his skin, but he hangs on. Peter’s face contorts with anger, realizing that Derek is choosing a different path. But the magic is already out of his control. Derek feels the power flowing through him, and tries, so hard, to remember. 

Before the monsters, the real ones, creeping out of his nightmares and onto the earth. Before New York fell.

Before Stiles.

He looks at him, once more, over his shoulder. Peter is yelling, screaming obscenities, but it sounds so far away. Stiles is on the ground, bathed in light. When Derek looks down, he realizes it’s because the air around him is glowing. He wants to reach for Stiles, bring him wherever the magic is taking him, but he knows he can’t. He has one chance to make everything right. He can’t do that to Stiles. Can’t deprive him of the way things are meant to be. 

He closes his eyes, and lets the magic consume him. 

 

* * *

 

Stiles feels like he’s falling, and he jerks up from his bead, heart hammering against his chest, a strangled shout dying in his throat. He presses a hand against his ribcage, choking. It’s soft, where he’s sitting, and the room is dark. And warm. Room. He’s in a bed, and it’s soft, and he’s in a room he _knows_ , and it’s warm, even without firelight. 

He licks his lips. 

This is his father’s house. He looks down at his hands. Those are soft, too. No grizzled callouses or thorny scars. He looks around. There’s a fan rattling in the open window. He pulls the blankets back. His leg is fine. They’re both a little scrawny-looking, but his skin is unblemished. He can’t even find a bruise. He takes a few calming breaths, and his heart finally starts to slow down. He runs his fingers through his hair, and finds his head is shaved. He remembers that haircut. He must be sixteen years old. 

He’s home. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week is a short one. I hope the length of next week's update will make up for the fact that it's the last chapter. 0_0


	47. Safety in Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Kate Argent.

Derek drives all the way to Beacon Hills without any idea why. 

It’s not like there’s anything there for him. He checks on Peter, to see if he’s really.. but he is. Peter is dead. He didn’t need to see that for himself. His body is dust, like it would have been if he hadn’t escaped the fire. Derek can smell the end of him. Swallowed up by the magic, or whatever, Derek doesn’t pretend to understand what happened. He sleeps in the car, not sure what he’s supposed to do with himself. 

He’s surprised he can sleep at all. 

He had a life in New York, but he finds he doesn’t want it. It doesn’t mean anything. The apartment feels empty without Laura with him. He was going to enroll in community college, but he doesn’t see the point. He visits the house, even though he knows what to expect. His memory of it is alienating. He remembers coming here with Stiles, years away, after the roof had caved in and rain and time had washed away the smell… but of course, those years haven’t passed, and now the smell feels like it’s everywhere. He can’t stay long. 

When he comes back outside, she’s leaning against the hood of the car.

He feels so sick at first he doesn’t notice what’s changed about her. And he knows that so many of his memories haven’t happened, that the last time this version of her saw him, he was a teenager, and his family was about to die at her hand. Which is bad enough, but he can’t shake the knowledge that the last time _he_ saw _her_ , he was under her control. She ripped out his mind and replaced him with a mindless killer. It doesn’t make a difference, knowing that these things haven’t happened, will never happen. They happened to him. And he expects to feel revulsion, and he does. But there’s a worse feeling, overtaking him. Anger. He wants to tear her apart. He wants to see her bleed. 

“Hey Derek.”

He shakes his head.

“Whatever you’re here for, save it.”

She snarls, and there it is. He knows. 

“You were bitten.”

He hears her lungs as her breath freezes in her chest. 

“Derek.”

He wants to laugh.

“You were bitten,” It hurts. “After everything, you’re a werewolf now.”

She growls, deep in her chest.

“I killed the ugly son of a bitch that bit me.” She shrugs. “Turns out that doesn’t work.”

He crosses his arms.

“What did you come here for?”

She hums.

“Just wanted to let you know I’m back. It’s probably time for me to finish what I started.”

But he knows, he _knows._ He can hear her heart beating, and he’s not young, not like he was. He’s learned not to trust her, learned it over and over again. He might not have the wolfsbane-laden scars anymore, but he remembers how he got them.

“You didn’t need to tell me that. You could have snuck up on me. You’re probably fast enough now. You might stand a chance.” He smiles, all teeth. “You’re here because you need my help.”

She grimaces.

“Fat chance.”

He steps down off the porch.

“Oh no. You can’t go back to your family. The Hale pack used to be a safe haven for new werewolves like you. But they’re gone.” His voice rumbles. “ _Thanks_ , for that, but the way.”

She backs away.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Derek.”

“I know _exactly_ what I’m saying.” He hisses. “Stay the hell away from me.” He knows his eyes are glowing. He’s been afraid to check, not sure what he wants to see. Judging from the way Kate’s face pales, he knows the power in his body isn’t just residual from the spell, or the aftershocks of freedom from the burden of years of abuse and starvation and agony. He’s an Alpha. 

He doesn’t want it. 

She bolts. Faster than a human. The air feels brittle around him. He can taste her fear. He doesn’t want that, either.

* * *

She bites Scott McCall. It shouldn’t work. It does. 

* * *

The first time he sees Stiles, he ignores him. Or tries to. 

His scent is beautiful. It’s exactly like he remembers, only brighter, and sharper, a little more acidic, but it stays with him for days. It distracts him during the meeting where he should really be paying attention. After all, Chris Argent is present. 

“You said she called you here?”

Chris points to a place on the map laid out before them, and Scott nods. 

“Yeah. It didn’t make any sense. I was studying, and I feel asleep, and then I was there. I didn’t remember leaving.” He flushes. “I don’t even remember putting pants on.”

Argent barely holds back a groan. Upstairs, Derek can hear Allison giggle, and he’s glad. He’d figured out early on that Scott’s phone is connected to hers, the line open in his pocket. Derek is fairly sure Chris thinks Allison doesn’t know about her family’s heritage yet. That’s all right, for now. He’d much rather deal with her than her surly parents, but they’ve made an effort to be civil, and haven’t threatened to kill him. And they know the truth about the fire, and about Kate. And they’re willing to stop her, this time. It’s good enough. Allison is clever, but she’s still young. She’s not ready to be their leader. Yet. 

Stiles is the same age. 

Derek cringes, staring at the map, and wondering why he can feel Stiles watching him. 

* * *

It’s Allison, in the end, who does it. 

Scott leads the Argents to Kate. Derek is there, trying to protect him, trying to help him maintain the control that Kate threatens with her presence, with her sanguine promises. Victoria and Chris trap her. And then, because she is family, because they have doubts, they don’t kill her right away. 

She takes advantage of their love. She runs.

And Stiles, idiot, is standing right in her path. Where everyone _agreed_ should be off-limits to normal humans, _especially_ those with the name Stiles. 

Later, Derek will give thanks to whatever deities might be listening, for Allison’s impeccable aim. 

Kate is barely gone before he’s shouting at Stiles, and the words feel familiar to him, they feel like words he’s been saving up. _Why didn’t you stay behind_ , and _you knew it was dangerous_ and _you could have been killed what the hell were you thinking_ , it all comes out, before he can catch himself and remember. Stiles is not hobbling around on a leg injury. The world isn’t collapsing in slow motion all around them. And while Derek’s not in the wrong, it’s a little strange that he’s skipped the usual formalities, the _hi, pleased to meet you, my name is Derek_ , and gone right ahead to… well. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, in perhaps the least graceful apology he’s ever delivered. He knows it’s probably time to leave Beacon Hills.

Except he doesn’t. 

* * *

Stiles crashes through the woods, loud and alone, because he knows Derek will hear him. And, if that’s not blatant enough, he shouts, too. 

"Derek!”

He’s so caught up in his virulent temper tantrum that it takes him a second to realize that Derek is there. And he looks… pissed.

“Derek.” He catches his breath, stopping dead in his tracks just before he trips all over the grouchiest werewolf he has ever met (and he has met three, at least in this version of reality). 

“This is private property.”

Stiles wants to throttle him.

“So call my dad.”

Derek scowls, turning away. Stiles almost trips over himself trying to catch up to Derek’s wide pace. He runs, panting, until he’s in front of Derek, bracing against Derek’s shoulder. 

"Just. Talk to me for a second. Or listen to me talk. Because I remember, and I know you remember, too. I see the way you look at me, like you're looking for scars that aren't there anymore. And you're careful around my leg, like you're still expecting it to give out. I know you know what I'm talking about."

Derek shudders, but he's not denying anything. 

"It never happened."

"But it did to us." He gulps. "Why didn't you go back further? You could have gone farther. You could have had your whole family again. You could have had Laura-"

"No." Derek's voice rumbles. "I only had one shot. I could have... I could have had them all again, but everything would still have been fucked up."

Stiles swallows.

"I would have saved them."

"I know. That's why it had to be me."

* * *

A quiet part of him whispers, _I wish it had been you_ , and he thinks Stiles must hear it, because he wraps his arms around Derek's waist. He's not confident, and his grip isn't as strong, and he smells clean and well-fed and he's still _Stiles_ , and Derek doesn't know what to do with the conflicting memories fighting for space inside his head. This is the teenager he found trespassing on his family's property, this is the person that will never grow into the man driving the ambulance, who doesn't carry guns, who won't ask for anything, who only wants what Derek's willing to give. He's going to be different. He could go to college, or join the army, and what will happen to his 'no-guns' policy then? He could learn to _take_ , and Derek's afraid that he might actually _give_ him everything. 

Derek lets Stiles hold him, his eyes pressed shut. 

"I keep waking up and freaking out because you're not there. I keep thinking you're gone, that you left me, before I remember that you weren't there in the first place, that I'm not pushing thirty and that I still live with my dad, Christ, you saved my _dad_..." Stiles' fingers are tangled in the fabric of Derek's jacket, and he's hiccuping and his tears are making Derek's shirt stick to his skin, and he doesn't know what to do.

"I keep forgetting you're not pushing thirty, too. Stiles, I can't keep _wanting_ you like this."

Stiles detaches himself a little, sniffling.

"Why not?"

Derek grits his teeth.

"You know."

Stiles shrugs.

"But I think I'm gonna keep on wanting you. I couldn't... I couldn't tell you before, because I thought forever was only going to last for a few more months, and I didn't want to promise you time that I knew I didn't have, but Derek, I want you. Not just right now. Not just then. And not just whatever you're willing to give me."

"Stiles-"

"I want to wake up next to you every day. I want to fight monsters with you. I want to fucking _kiss_ you-" and Stiles stops, staring at Derek. 

Derek, staring back at him, doesn't feel ashamed, though he thinks he remembers what that felt like.

Stiles swallows.

"And I think I'm going to."

He grasps Derek's jaw, cupping it like he's sacred, and leans up on the tips of his toes, because time's gone backwards and he hasn't had that growth spurt that will make them almost even, and he presses his lips against Derek's. And maybe he's not as cocky, not as practiced, because his muscle memory is gone. Their noses bump and their tongues are too heavy and their lips tremble. It's a first kiss, and it's _their_ first kiss, it's a kiss they get to do-over. 

When they break apart, Stiles is smiling, and Derek is surprised to find that he is, too. 

"You want forever?"

Stiles rubs his thumb across Derek's cheek.

"At least take me out to dinner first, Sourwolf."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following this through to the end! Especially to everyone who commented and left kudos, you’re the most wonderful. 
> 
> I may or may not dip back into Teen Wolf depending on how I react to the upcoming season. Until then, I’m going to be focusing on _Shit My Sherlock Does_ , a multimedia project starring Sherlock Holmes as a queer nuisance detective in New York. (Here’s our [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC59JG1itWyFpCNCIlk1K-Ug) channel and [Tumblr](http://shitmysherlockdoes.tumblr.com/)). Most of the money in my Patreon account is going to be funneled into that project. 
> 
> I’ve also posted a preview of my next super-long fic project, titled _Body of Evidence_ , in which I work out my backlog of various issues and idolize Natasha Romanoff. If that sounds up your alley, you can see the preview here: [Body of Evidence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3194057). Updates will be similar to ‘Ornament’, and will begin in March. 
> 
> And lastly, feel free to drop me a line via [Tumblr](http://shamwowxl.tumblr.com/) whenever you like. 
> 
> Love, Shannon/Shamwow


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